Pi! 


•:>" 
* 


THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 


"YES,    I'M    A-GOING    TO    GET    A    CHANCE    TO    WORK     RIGHT 
AWAY,"    SHE    SMILED    UP    AT    HIM 


The  Power 
and  the  Glory 

By 
Grace   MacGowan    Cooke 


Author  of 

"Mistress  Joy,"  "Return,"    "  Huldah,"  "Grapple," 
"  Their  First  Formal  Call,"   etc. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY  ARTHUR  I.  KELLER 


New  York 

Doubleday,  Page  &  Company 
1910 


ALL   SIGHTS   RESERVED,    INCLUDING  THAT   OF  TRANSLATION 
INTO    FOREIGN   LANGUAGES,  INCLUDING   THE   SCANDINAVIAN 


COPYRIGHT,   igOQ,  IQIO,  BY  THE   BUTTERICK  PUBLISHING   COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    iglO,    BY   DOUBLEDAY,    PAGE     t    COMPANY 
PUBLISHED,  AUGUST,    IQIO 


TO  HELEN 


2075550 


CONTENTS 


I.  THE  BIRTH  OF  A  WOMAN-CHILD     .     .  3 

II.  THE  BIRTH  OF  AN  AMBITION          .     .  12 

III.  A  PEAK.  IN  DARIEN 25 

IV.  OF  THE  USE  OF  FEET 36 

V.  THE  MOCCASIN  FLOWER       ....  52 

VI.  WEAVERS  AND  WEFT 65 

VII.  ABOVE  THE  VALLEY 76 

VIII.  OF  THE  USE  OF  WINGS 94 

IX.  A  BIT  OF  METAL no 

X.  THE  SANDALS  OF  JOY 135 

XI.  THE  NEW  BOARDER 155 

XII.  THE  CONTENTS  OF  A  BANDANNA    .     .  166 

XIII.  A  PATIENT  FOR  THE  HOSPITAL       .     .  175 

XIV.  WEDDING  BELLS 188 

XV.  THE  FEET  OF  THE  CHILDREN    .     .     .  200 

XVI.  BITTER  WATERS 217 

XVII.  A  VICTIM 241 

XVIII.  LIGHT        256 


vi  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XIX.  A  PACT 269 

XX.  MISSING 276 

XXI.  THE  SEARCH 287 

XXII.  THE  ATLAS  VERTEBRA 303 

XXIII.  A  CLUE     .    .    . 318 

XXIV.  THE  RESCUE 335 

XXV.  THE  FUTURE 358 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Yes,   I'm   a-going  to  get  a  chance    to  work 

right  away,"  she  smiled  up  at  him   .    Frontispiece 


FACING  PAGE 


He  loomed  above  them,  white  and  shaking. 
"You  thieves!"  he  roared.  "Give  me  my 
bandanner!  Give  me  Johnnie's  silver 
mine!" 172 

"Lost  —  gone!    My  God,  Mother  —  it's  three 

days  and  three  nights!"     ....       294 

The  car  was  already  leaping  down  the  hill  at  a 

tremendous  pace 346 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  BIRTH  OF  A  WOMAN-CHILD 

WHOSE  cradle's  that?"  the  sick  woman's  thin 
querulous  tones  arrested  the  man  at  the 
threshold. 

"Onie  Dillard's,"  he  replied  hollowly  from  the 
depths  of  the  crib  which  he  carried  upside  down  upon 
his  head,  like  some  curious  kind  of  overgrown  helmet. 

"Now,  why  in  the  name  o'  common  sense  would 
ye  go  and  borry  a  broken  cradle?"  came  the  wail 
from  the  bed.  "I  'lowed  you'd  git  Billy  Spinner's, 
an'  hit's  as  good  as  new." 

Uncle  Pros  set  the  small  article  of  furniture  down 
gently. 

"  Don't  you  worry  yo'se'f,  Laurelly,"  he  said  enthusi 
astically.  Pros  Passmore,  uncle  of  the  sick  woman 
and  mainstay  of  the  forlorn  little  Consadine  household, 
was  always  full  of  enthusiasm.  '*  Just  a  few  nails  and 
a  little  wrappin'  of  twine'll  make  it  all  right,"  he 
informed  his  niece.  "I  stopped  a-past  and  borried 
the  nails  and  the  hammer  from  Jeff  Dawes;  I  mighty 
nigh  pounded  my  thumb  off  knockin'  in  nails  with  a 
rock  an'  a  sad-iron  last  week." 

"Looks  like  nobody  ain't  got  no  sense,"  returned 
Laurella  Consadine  ungratefully.  "Even  you,  Unc' 

3 


4    THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

Pros  —  while  you  borryin'  why  cain't  ye  borry  whole 
things  that  don't  need  mendin'  ?" 

Out  of  the  shadows  that  hoarded  the  further  end 
of  the  room  came  a  woman  with  a  little  bundle  in  her 
arm  which  had  evidently  created  the  necessity  for  the 
borrowed  cradle. 

"Laurelly,"  the  nurse  hesitated,  "I  wouldn't  name 
it  to  ye  whilst  ye  was  a-sufferin/  but  I  jest  cain't  find 
the  baby's  clothes  nowhars.  I've  done  washed  the 
little  trick  and  wrapped  her  in  my  flannen  petticoat. 
I  do  despise  to  put  anything  on  'em  that  anybody  else 
has  wore  —  hit  don't  seem  right.  But  I've  been  plumb 
through  everything,  an'  cain't  find  none  of  her  coats. 
Whar  did  you  put  'em  ?" 

"I  didn't  have  no  luck  borryin'  for  this  one," 
complained  the  sick  woman  fretfully.  "Looks  like 
everybody's  got  that  mean  that  they  wouldn't  lend  me 
a  rag  —  an*  the  Lord  knows  I  only  ast  a  wearin'  of  the 
clothes  for  my  chillen.  Folks  can  make  shore  that 
I  return  what  I  borry  —  ef  the  Lord  lets  me." 

"Ain't  they  nothin'  to  put  on  the  baby?"  asked 
Mavity  Bence,  aghast. 

"No.  Hit's  jest  like  I  been  tellin*  ye.  I  went  to 
Tarver's  wife  —  she's  got  a  plenty.  I  knowed  in 
reason  she'd  have  baby  clothes  that  she  couldn't  expect 
to  wear  out  on  her  own  chillen.  I  said  as  much  to 
her,  when  she  told  me  she  was  liable  to  need  'em  befo' 
I  did.  I  says,  'Ye  cain't  need  more'n  half  of  'em,  I 
reckon,  an'  half'll  do  me,  an'  I'll  return  'em  to  ye  when 
I'm  done  with  'em.'  She  acted  jest  as  selfish  —  said 


THE  BIRTH  OF  A  WOMAN-CHILD        5 

she'd  like  to  know  how  I  was  goin'  to  inshore  her  that 
it  wouldn't  be  twins  agin  same  as  'twas  before.  Some 
folks  is  powerful  mean  an*  suspicious." 

All  this  time  the  nurse  had  been  standing  with  the 
quiet  small  packet  which  was  the  storm  centre  of 
preparation  lying  like  a  cocoon  or  a  giant  seed-pod 
against  her  bosom. 

"She's  a  mighty  likely  little  gal,"  said  she  finally. 
"  Have  ye  any  hopes  o'  gittin'  anything  to  put  on  her  ?" 

The  woman  in  the  bed  —  she  was  scarcely  more 
than  a  girl,  with  shining  dark  eyes  and  a  profusion  of 
jetty  ringlets  about  her  elfish,  pretty  little  face  - 
seemed  to  feel  that  this  speech  was  in  the  nature  of 
a  reproach.  She  hastened  to  detail  her  further  activ 
ities  on  behalf  of  the  newcomer. 

"Consadine's  a  poor  provider,"  she  said  plaintively, 
alluding  to  her  absent  husband.  "Maw  said  to  me 
when  I  would  have  him  that  he  was  a  poor  provider; 
and  then  he's  got  into  this  here  way  of  goin'  off  like. 
Time  things  gets  too  bad  here  at  home  he's  got  a  big 
scheme  up  for  makin'  his  fortune  somewhars  else,  and 
out  he  puts.  He  'lowed  he'd  be  home  with  a  plenty 
before  the  baby  come.  But  thar  —  he's  the  best  man 
that  ever  was,  when  he's  here,  and  I  have  no  wish  to 
miscall  him.  I  reckon  he  thought  I  could  borry  what 
I'd  need.  Biney  Meal  lent  me  enough  for  the  little  un 
that  died;  but  of  course  some  o'  the  coats  was  buried 
with  the  child;  and  what  was  left,  Sis'  Elvira  borried 
for  her  baby.  I  was  layin'  off  to  go  over  to  the  Deep 
Spring  neighbourhood  when  I  could  git  a  lift  in  that 


6     THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

direction  —  the  folks  over  yon  is  mighty  accommoda 
tive,"  she  concluded,  "but  I  was  took  sooner  than  I 
expected,  and  hyer  we  air  without  a  stitch.     I've  done 
sont    Bud    an'    Honey   to    Mandy   Ann    Foncher's  - 
mebby  they'll  bring  in  somethinV 

The  little  cabin  shrank  back  against  the  steep  side 
of  the  mountain  as  though  half  terrified  at  the  hollow 
immensity  of  the  welkin  above,  or  the  almost  sheer 
drop  to  the  valley  five  hundred  feet  beneath.  A  sidling 
mountain  trail  passed  the  front  of  its  rail  fence,  and 
stones  continually  rolled  from  the  upper  to  the  lower 
side  of  this  highway. 

The  day  was  darkening  rapidly.  A  low  line  of  red 
still  burned  behind  the  massive  bulk  of  Big  Unaka, 
and  the  solemn  purple  mountains  raised  their  peaks 
against  it  in  a  jagged  line.  Within  the  single-roomed 
cabin  the  rich,  broken  light  from  the  cavernous  fire 
place  filled  the  smoke-browned  interior  full  of  shadow 
and  shine  in  which  things  leaped  oddly  into  life,  or 
dropped  out  of  knowledge  with  a  startling  effect. 
The  four  corners  of  the  log  room  were  utilized,  three 
of  them  for  beds,  made  by  thrusting  two  poles  through 
auger  holes  bored  in  the  logs  of  the  walls,  setting  a  leg 
at  the  corner  where  these  met  and  lacing  the  bottom 
with  hickory  withes.  The  fourth  had  some  rude 
planks  nailed  in  it  for  a  table,  and  a  knot-hole  in  one 
of  the  logs  served  the  primitive  purpose  of  a  salt-cellar. 
A  pack  of  gaunt  hounds  quarrelled  under  the  floor, 
and  the  sick  woman  stirred  uneasily  on  her  bed  and 
expressed  a  wish  that  her  emissaries  would  return. 


THE  BIRTH  OF  A  WOMAN-CHILD         7 

Uncle  Pros  had  taken  the  cradle  to  a  back  door  to 
get  the  last  of  the  evening  sun  upon  his  task.  One 
would  not  have  thought  that  he  could  hear  what  the 
women  were  saying  at  this  distance,  but  the  old  hunter's 
ears  were  sharp. 

"Never  you  mind,  Laurelly,"  he  called  cheerfully. 
"Wrop  the  baby  up  some  tashion,  and  I'll  hike  out 
and  get  clothes  for  her,  time  I  mend  this  cradle." 

"  Ef  that  ain't  just  like  Unc'  Pros ! "  And  the  girlish 
mother  laughed  out  suddenly.  You  saw  the  gypsy 
beauty  of  her  face.  "He  ain't  content  with  borryin' 
men's  truck,  but  thinks  he  can  turn  in  an'  borry  coats 
'mongst  the  women.  Well,  I  reckon  he  might  have 
better  luck  than  what  I  did." 

As  she  spoke  a  small  boy  and  girl,  her  dead  brother's 
children,  came  clattering  in  from  the  purple  mysteries 
of  dusk  outside,  hand  clasped  in  hand,  and  stopped 
close  to  the  bed,  staring. 

"Mandy  Ann,  she  wouldn't  lend  us  a  thing,"  Bud 
began  in  an  aggrieved  tone.  "  I  traded  for  this  —  chop 
ped  wood  for  it  —  and  hit  was  all  she  would  give  me." 
He  laid  a  coarse  little  garment  upon  the  ragged  coverlet. 

"That!"  cried  Laurella  Passmore,  taking  it  up  with 
angrily  tremulous  fingers.  "My  child  shain't  wear  no 
sech.  Hit  ain't  fittin'  for  my  baby  to  put  on.  Oh,  I 
wisht  I  could  git  up  from  here  and  do  about;  I'd  git 
somethin'  for  her  to  wear!" 

"Son,"  said  Mrs.  Bence,  approaching  the  bedside, 
"air  ye  afeared  to  go  over  as  far  as  my  house 
right  now  ? " 


8     THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

"  I  ain't  skeered  ef  Honey'll  go  with  me,"  returned 
the  boy  doubtfully,  as  he  interrogated  the  twilit  spaces 
beyond  the  open  cabin  door. 

"Well,  you  go  ask  Pap  to  look  in  the  green  chist 
and  send  me  the  spotted  caliker  poke  that  he'll  find 
under  the  big  bun'le.  Don't  you  let  him  give  you  that 
thar  big  bun'le;  'caze  that's  not  a  thing  but  seed  corn, 
and  he'll  be  mad  ef  it's  tetched.  Tell  Pap  that  what's 
in  the  spotted  poke  ain't  nothin'  that  he  wants.  Tell 
him  it's  — well,  tell  him  to  look  at  it  before  he  gives  it 
to  you." 

The  two  little  souls  scuttled  away  into  the  gathering 
dark,  and  the  neighbour  woman  sat  down  by  the  fire 
to  nurse  the  baby  and  croon  and  await  the  clothing 
for  which  she  had  sent. 

She  was  not  an  old  woman,  but  already  stiff  and 
misshapen  by  toil  and  the  lack  of  that  saving  salt  of 
pride,  the  stimulation  of  joy,  which  keeps  us  erect  and 
supple.  Her  broad  back  was  bent;  her  hands  as  they 
shifted  the  infant  tenderly  were  knotted  and  work- 
worn.  Mavity  Bence  was  a  w7idow,  living  at  home 
with  her  father,  Gideon  Himes;  she  had  one  child  left, 
a  daughter;  but  the  clothing  for  which  she  had  sent 
wras  an  outfit  made  for  a  son,  the  posthumous  off 
spring  of  his  father;  and  the  babe  had  not  lived  long 
enough  to  wear  it. 

Outside,  Uncle  Pros  began  to  sing  at  his  work.  He 
had  a  fluty  old  tenor  voice,  and  he  put  in  turns  and 
quavers  that  no  ear  not  of  the  mountains  could  possibly 
follow  and  fix.  First  it  was  a  hymn,  all  abrupt,  odd, 


THE  BIRTH  OF  A  WOMAN-CHILD        9 

minor  cadences  and  monotonous  refrain.  Then  he 
shifted  to  a  ballad  —  and  the  mountains  are  full  of  old 
ballads  of  Scotland  and  England,  come  down  from  the 
time  of  the  first  settlers,  and  with  local  names  quaintly 
substituted  for  the  originals  here  and  there. 

"  She's  gwine  to  walk  in  a  silken  gownd, 
An'  ha'e  plenty  o'  siller  for  to  spare," 

chanted  the  old  man  above  the  little  bed  he  was 
repairing. 

"Who's  that  you're  a-namin'  that's  a-goin'  to  have 
silk  dresses?"  inquired  Laurella,  as  he  entered  and 
set  the  mended  cradle  down  by  the  bedside. 

"The  baby,"  he  returned.  "Ef  I  find  my  silver 
mine  —  or  ruther  when  I  find  my  silver  mine,  for  you 
know  in  reason  with  the  directions  Pap's  Grandpap 
left,  and  that  word  from  Great  Uncle  Billy  that  helped 
the  Injuns-  work  it,  I'm  bound  to  run  the  thing  down 
one  o'  these  days  —  when  I  find  my  silver  mine  this  here 
little  gal's  a-goin'  to  have  everything  she  wants  - 
ain't  ye,  Pretty?" 

And,  having  made  a  bed  in  the  cradle  from  some 
folded  covers,  he  lifted  the  baby  with  strange  deftness 
and  placed  it  in. 

"See  thar,"  he  called  their  attention  proudly.  "As 
good  as  new.  And  ef  I  git  time  I'm  a-goin'  to  give  it 
a  few  licks  o'  paint." 

Hands  on  knees,  he  bent  to  study  the  face  of  the 
new-born,  that  countenance  so  ambiguous  to  our  eyes, 
scarce  stamped  yet  with  the  common  seal  of  humanity. 


io    THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

"She's  a  mighty  pretty  little  gal,"  he  repeated 
Mavity  Bence's  words.  "She's  got  the  Passmore 
favour,  as  well  as  the  Consadine.  Reckon  I  better  be 
steppin'  over  to  Vander's  and  see  can  I  borry  their 
cow.  If  it's  with  you  this  time  like  it  was  with  the 
last  one,  we'll  have  to  have  a  cow.  I  always  thought 
if  we'd  had  a  fresh  cow  for  that  other  one,  hit  would 
'a'  lived.  I  know  in  reason  Vander'll  lend  the  cow 
for  a  spell"  -Uncle  Pros  always  had  unbounded 
confidence  in  the  good  will  of  his  neighbours  toward 
himself,  since  his  own  generosity  to  them  would  have 
been  fathomless  -  "I  know  in  reason  he'll  lend  hit, 
'caze  they  ain't  got  no  baby  to  their  house." 

He  bestowed  one  more  proud,  fond  look  upon  the 
little  face  in  the  borrowed  cradle,  and  walked  out  with 
as  elated  a  step  as  though  a  queen  had  been  born  to 
the  tribe. 

In  the  doorway  he  met  Bud  and  Hone}*,  returning 
with  the  spotted  calico  poke  clutched  fast  between  them. 

"I  won't  ask  nothin'  but  a  wearin'  of  em  for  my 
child,"  Laurella  Consadine,  born  Laurella  Passmore, 
reiterated  when  the  small  garments  were  laid  out  on 
the  bed,  and  the  baby  was  being  dressed.  "They're 
mighty  fine,  Mavity,  an'  I'll  take  good  keer  of  'em  and 
always  bear  in  mind  that  they're  only  borried." 

"No,"  returned  Mavity  Bence,  with  unwonted 
firmness,  as  she  put  the  newcomer  into  the  slip  intended 
for  her  own  son.  "No,  Laurelly,  these  clothes  ain't 
loaned  to  you.  I  give  'em  to  this  child.  I'm  a  widder, 
and  I  never  look  to  wed  again,  becaze  Pap  he  has  to 


THE  BIRTH  OF  A  WOMAN-CHILD        n 

have  somebody  to  do  for  him,  an'  he'd  just  about  tear 
up  the  ground  if  I  was  to  name  sech  a  thing.  I'm 
mighty  glad  to  give  'em  to  yo'  little  gal.  I  only  wisht," 
she  said  wistfully,  "that  hit  was  a  boy.  Ef  hit  was  a 
boy,  mebbe  you'd  give  hit  the  name  that  should  'a' 
went  with  the  clothes.  I  was  a-goin'  to  call  the  baby 
John  after  hit's  pappy." 

Laurella  Consadine  lay  quiescent  for  a  moment, 
big  black  eyes  studying  the  smoky  logs  that  raftered 
the  roof.  Then  all  at  once  she  laughed,  with  a  flash 
of  white  teeth. 

"I  don't  see  why  Johnnie  ain't  a  mighty  fine  name 
for  a  gal,"  she  said.  "I  vow  I'm  a-goin'  to  name  her 
Johnnie!" 

And  so  this  one  of  the  tribe  of  borrowing  Passmores 
wore  her  own  clothing  from  the  first.  No  borrowed 
garment  touched  her.  She  rejected  the  milk  from  the 
borrowed '  cow,  fiercely;  lustily  she  demanded  —  and 
eventually  received  —  her  own  legitimate,  unborrowed 
sustenance. 

Perhaps  such  a  beginning  had  its  own  influence 
upon  her  future. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE    BIRTH    OF   AN   AMBITION 

A,L  day  the  girl  had  walked  steadily,  her  bare 
feet  comforted  by  the  warm  dust,  shunning  the 
pebbles,  never  finding  sharp  stones  in  the  way, 
making  friends  with  the  path  —  that  would  always  be 
Johnnie.  From  the  little  high-hung  valley  in  the 
remote  fastnesses  of  the  Unakas  where  she  was  born, 
Johnnie  Consadine  was  walking  down  to  Cottonville, 
the  factory  town  on  the  outskirts  of  Watauga,  to  find 
work.  Sometimes  the  road  wound  a  little  upward 
for  a  quarter  of  a  mile  or  so;  but  the  general  tendency 
was  persistently  down. 

In  the  gray  dawn  of  Sunday  morning  she  had  stepped 
from  the  door  of  that  room  where  the  three  beds 
occupied  three  corners,  and  a  rude  table  was  rigged  in 
the  fourth.  It  might  almost  seem  that  the  same 
hounds  were  quarrelling  under  the  floor  that  had 
scrambled  there  eighteen  years  before  when  she  was 
born.  At  first  the  way  was  entirely  familiar  to  her. 
It  passed  few  habitations,  and  of  those  the  dwellers 
were  not  yet  abroad,  since  it  was  scarce  day.  As  time 
went  on  she  got  to  the  little  settlement  at  the  foot  of 
the  first  mountain,  and  had  to  explain  to  everybody 
her  destination  and  ambition.  Beyond  this,  she 


THE  BIRTH  OF  AN  AMBITION          13 

stopped  occasionally  for  direction,  she  met  more  people; 
yet  she  was  still  in  the  heart  of  the  mountains  when 
noon  found  her,  and  she  crept  up  a  wayside  bank  and 
sat  down  alone  to  eat  her  bite  of  corn  pone. 

Guided  by  the  instinct  —  or  the  wood-craft  —  of  the 
mountain  born  and  bred,  she  had  sought  out  one  of  the 
hermit  springs  of  beautiful  freestone  water  that  hide 
in  these  solitudes.  When  she  had  slaked  her  thirst  at 
its  little  ice-cold  chalice,  she  raised  her  head  with  a 
low  exclamation  of  rapture.  There,  growing  and 
blowing  beside  the  cool  thread  of  water  which  trickled 
from  the  spring,  was  a  stately  pink  moccasin  flower. 
She  knelt  and  gazed  at  it  with  folded  hands,  as  one 
before  a  shrine. 

What  is  it  in  the  sweeping  dignity  of  these  pointed, 
oval,  parallel-veined  leaves,  sheathed  one  within 
another,  the  clean  column  of  the  bloom  stalk  rising  a 
foot  and  a  half  perhaps  above,  and  at  its  tip  the  wonder 
ful  pink,  dreaming  Buddha  of  the  forest,  that  so  com 
mands  the  heart  ?  It  was  not  entirely  the  beauty  of 
the  softly  glowing  orchid  that  charmed  Johnnie  Consa- 
dine's  eyes;  it  was  the  significance  of  the  flower. 
Somehow  the  finding  this  rare,  shy  thing  decking  her 
path  toward  labour  and  enterprise  spoke  to  her  soul 
of  success.  For  a  long  time  she  knelt,  her  bright 
uncovered  head  dappled  by  a  ray  of  sunlight  which 
filtered  through  the  deep,  cool  green  above  her,  her 
face  bent,  her  eyes  brooding,  as  though  she  prayed. 
When  she  had  finished  her  dinner  of  corn  pone  and 
fried  pork,  she  rose  and  parted  with  almost  reverent 


i4    THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

fingers  the  pink  wonder  from  its  stalk,  sought  out  a 
coarse,  clean  handkerchief  from  her  bundle  and,  steep 
ing  it  in  the  icy  water  of  the  spring,  lapped  it  around 
her  treasure.  Not  often  in  her  eighteen  summers 
had  she  found  so  fine  a  specimen.  Then  she  took  up 
her  journey,  comforted  and  strangely  elated. 

"Looks  like  it  was  waiting  right  there  to  tell  me 
howdy,"  she  murmured  to  herself. 

The  keynote  of  Johnnie  Consadine's  character 
was  aspiration.  In  her  cabin  home  the  wings  of 
desire  were  clipped,  because  she  must  needs  put  her 
passionate  young  soul  into  the  longing  for  food,  to 
quiet  the  cravings  of  a  healthy  stomach,  which  gen 
erally  clamoured  from  one  blackberry  season  to  the 
other;  the  longing  for  shoes,  when  her  feet  were  frost 
bitten;  the  yet  more  urgent  wish  to  feed  the  little  ones 
she  loved;  the  pressing  demand,  when  the  water-bucket 
gave  out  and  they  had  to  pack  water  in  a  tin  tomato 
can  with  a  string  bail;  the  dull  ache  of  mortification 
when  she  became  old  enough  to  understand  their 
position  as  the  borrowing  Passmores.  Yet  all  human 
desire  is  sacred,  and  of  God;  to  desire  —  to  want - 
to  aspire  —  thus  shall  the  individual  be  saved;  and 
surely  in  this  is  the  salvation  of  the  race.  And  Johnnie 
felt  vaguely  that  at  last  she  was  going  out  into  a  world 
where  she  should  learn  what  to  desire  and  how  to 
desire  it. 

Now  as  she  tramped  she  was  conning  over  her 
present  plans.  Again  she  saw  the  cabin  at  home  in 
that  pitchy  black  which  precedes  the  first  leavening  of 


THE  BIRTH  OF  AN  AMBITION  15 

dawn,  and  herself  getting  up  to  start  early  on  the 
long  walk.  Her  mother  would  get  up  too,  and  that 
was  foolish.  She  saw  the  slight  figure  stooping  to 
rake  together  the  embers  in  the  broad  chimney's  throat 
that  the  coffee-pot  might  be  set  on.  She  remonstrated 
with  the  little  mother,  saying  that  she  aimed  not  to 
disturb  anybody  —  not  even  Uncle  Pros. 

"Uncle  Pros!"  Laurella  echoed  from  the  hearth 
stone,  where  she  sat  on  her  heels,  like  a  little  girl  play 
ing  at  mud-pies.  Johnnie  smiled  at  the  memory  of 
how  her  mother  laughed  over  the  suggestion,  with  a 
drawing  of  slant  brows  above  big,  tragic  dark  eyes,  a 
look  of  suffering  from  the  mirth  which  adds  the  crown 
to  joyousness.  "Your  Uncle  Pros  he  got  a  revelation 
'long  'bout  midnight  as  to  just  whar  that  thar  silver 
mine  is  that's  been  dodgin'  him  for  more'n  forty  year. 
He  come  a-shakin'  me  by  the  shoulder  —  like  I  reckon 
he's  done  fifty  times  ef  he's  done  it  once  —  and  telling 
me  that  he's  off  to  make  all  our  fortunes  inside  of  a 
week.  He  said  if  you  still  would  go  down  to  that  thar 
old  fool  cotton  mill  and  hire  out,  to  name  it  to  you  that 
Shade  Buckheath  would  stand  some  watchin'.  Your 
Uncle  Pros  has  got  sense  —  in  streaks.  Why  in  the 
world  you'll  pike  out  and  go  to  work  in  a  cotton  mill 
is  more  than  I  can  cipher." 

"To  take  care  of  you  and  the  children,"  the  girl 
had  said,  standing  tall  and  straight,  deep-bosomed  and 
red-lipped,  laughing  back  at  her  little  mother.  "Some 
body's  got  to  take  care  of  you-all,  and  I  just  love  to 
be  the  one." 


1 6    THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

Laurella  Consadine,  commonly  called  in  mountain 
fashion  by  her  maiden  name  of  Laurella  Passmore, 
scrambled  to  her  feet  and  tossed  the  dark  curls  out 
of  her  eyes. 

"  Aw  —  law  —  huh ! "  she  returned  carelessly.  "  We'll 
get  along;  we  always  have.  How  do  you  reckon  I 
made  out  before  you  was  born,  you  great  big  some 
body  ?  What's  the  matter  with  you  ?  Did  you  fail 
to  borry  a  frock  for  the  dance  over  at  Rainy  Gap  ? 
Try  again,  honey  —  I'll  bet  S'lomy  Buckheath  would 
lend  you  one  o'  her'n." 

That  was  it;  borrowing  —  borrowing  —  borrowing 
till  they  were  known  as  the  borrowing  Passmores  and 
became  the  jest  of  the  neighbourhood. 

"  No,  I  couldn't  stand  it,"  the  girl  justified  herself. 
"I  had  obliged  to  get  out  and  go  where  money  could 
be  earned  —  me,  that's  big  and  stout  and  able." 

And  sighingly  —  yet  light-heartedly,  for  with 
Laurella  Consadine  and  Johnnie  there  was  always  the 
quaint  suggestion  of  a  little  girl  with  a  doll  quite  too 
big  for  her  —  the  mother  let  her  go.  It  had  been  just 
so  when  Johnnie  would  have  her  time  for  every  term 
of  the  "old  field  hollerin'  school,"  where  she  learned 
to  read  and  write;  even  when  she  persisted  in  going 
to  Rainy  Gap  where  some  charitably  inclined  northern 
church  maintained  a  little  school,  and  pushed  her 
education  to  dizzy  heights  that  to  mountain  vision 
appeared  "plumb  foolish." 

That  morning  she  had  cautioned  her  mother  to  be 
careful  lest  they  waken  the  children,  for  if  the  little 


ones  roused  and  began,  as  the  mountain  phrase  has  it, 
"takin'  on,"  she  scarcely  knew  how  she  should  find 
heart  to  leave  them.  The  children  —  there  was  the 
thing  that  drove.  Four  small  brothers  and  sisters 
there  were;  with  little  Deanie,  the  youngest,  to  make 
the  painfully  strong  plea  of  recent  babyhood.  Con- 
sadine,  who  never  could  earn  money,  and  used  to  be 
from  home  following  one  wild  scheme  or  another  most 
of  the  time,  was  gone  these  two  years  upon  his  last 
dubious,  adventurous  journey;  there  was  not  even 
his  intermittent  assistance  to  depend  upon.  Johnnie 
was  the  man  of  the  family,  and  she  shouldered 
her  burden  bravely,  declaring  to  herself  that  she 
would  yet  have  a  chance,  which  the  little  ones  could 
share. 

She  had  kissed  her  mother,,  picked  up  her  bundle 
and  got  as  far  as  the  door,  when  there  came  a  spat  of 
bare  feet  meeting  the  floor,  a  pattering  rush,  and 
Deanie's  short  arms  went  around  her  knees,  almost 
tripping  her  up. 

"I  wasn't  'sleep  —  I  was  'wake  the  whole  time," 
whispered  the  baby,  lifting  a  warm,  pursed  mouth  for 
a  kiss.  "  Deanie'll  be  good  an'  let  you  go,  Sis'  Johnnie. 
An'  then  when  you  get  down  thar  whar  it's  all  so 
sightly,  you'll  send  for  Deanie,  'cause  deed  and  double 
you  couldn't  live  without  her,  now  could  ye?"  And 
she  looked  craftily  up  into  the  face  bent  above  her, 
bravely  choking  back  the  tears  that  wanted  to  drown 
her  long  speech. 

Johnnie   dropped   her   bundle   and   caught   up   the 


i8    THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

child,  crushing  the  warm,  soft,  yielding  little  form 
against  her  breast  in  a  very  passion  of  tenderness. 

"Deed  and  double  I  couldn't,"  she  whispered  back. 
"Sister's  goin'  to  earn  money,  and  Deanie  shall  have 
plenty  of  good  things  to  eat  next  winter,  and  some 
shoes.  She  shan't  be  housed  up  every  time  it  snows. 
Sis's  goin'  to  - 

She  broke  off  abruptly  and  kissed  the  small  face  with 
vehemence. 

"Good-bye,"  she  managed  to  whisper,  as  she  set 
the  baby  down  and  turned  to  her  mother.  The  kind 
ling  touch  of  that  farewell  warmed  her  resolution  yet. 
She  was  not  going  down  to  Cottonville  to  work  in  the  mill 
merely;  she  was  going  into  the  Storehouse  of  Possibili 
ties,  to  find  and  buy  a  chance  in  the  world  for  these 
poor  little  souls  who  could  never  have  it  otherwise. 

Before  she  kissed  her  mother,  took  up  her  bundle 
and  trudged  away  in  the  chill,  gray  dawn,  she  declared 
an  intention  to  come  home  and  pay  back  every  one 
to  whom  they  were  under  obligations.  Now  her  face 
dimpled  as  she  remembered  the  shriek  of  dismay 
Laurella  sent  after  her. 

"Good  land,  Johnnie  Consadine!  If  you  start 
in  to  pay  off  all  the  borryin's  of  the  Passmore  family 
since  you  was  born,  you'll  ruin  us  —  that's  what  you'll 
do  —  you'll  ruin  us." 

These  things  acted  themselves  over  and  over  in 
Johnnie's  mind  as,  throughout  the  fresh  April  after 
noon,  her  long,  free,  rhythmic  step,  its  morning  vigour 
undiminished,  swung  the  miles  behind  her;  still  present 


THE   BIRTH  OF  AN  AMBITION         19 

in  thought  when,  away  down  in  Render's  Gap,  she 
settled  herself  on  a  rock  by  the  wayside  where  a  little 
stream  crossed  the  road,  to  wash  her  feet  and  put  on 
the  shoes  which  she  had  up  to  this  time  carried  with 
her  bundle. 

"I  reckon  I  must  be  near  enough  town  to  need 
'em,"  she  said  regretfully,  as  she  drew  the  big,  shape 
less,  cowhide  affairs  on  her  slim,  brown,  carefully 
washed  and  dried  feet,  and  with  a  leathern  thong 
laced  down  a  wide,  stiff  tongue.  She  had  earned  the 
money  for  these  shoes  picking  blackberries  at  ten 
cents  the  gallon,  and  Uncle  Pros  had  bought  them  at 
the  store  at  Bledsoe  according  to  his  own  ideas.  "Get 
'em  big  enough  and  there  won't  be  any  fussin'  about 
the  fit,"  the  old  man  explained  his  theory:  and  indeed 
the  fit  of  those  shoes  on  Johnnie's  feet  was  not  a  thing 
to  fuss  over  —  it  was  past  considering. 

The  sun  was  westering;  the  Gap  began  to  be  in 
shadow,  although  the  point  at  which  she  sat  was  well 
above  the  valley.  The  girl  was  all  at  once  aware  that 
she  was  tired  and  a  little  timid  of  what  lay  before  her. 
She  had  written  to  Shade  Buckheath,  a  neighbour's 
boy  with  whom  she  had  gone  to  school,  now  employed 
as  a  mechanic  or  loom-fixer  in  one  of  the  cotton  mills, 
and  from  whom  she  had  received  a  reply  saying  that 
she  could  get  work  in  Cottonville  if  she  would  come 
down. 

Mavity  Bence,  who  had  given  Johnnie  her  first 
clothes,  was  a  weaver  in  the  Hardwick  mill  at  Cotton 
ville,  Watauga's  milling  suburb;  her  father,  Gideon 


20    THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

Himes,  with  whom  Shade  Buckheath  learned  his 
trade,  was  a  skilled  mechanic,  and  had  worked  as  a 
loom-fixer  for  a  while.  At  present  he  was  keeping  a 
boarding-house  for  the  hands,  and  it  was  here  Johnnie 
was  to  find  lodging.  Shade  himself  was  reported  to 
be  doing  extremely  well.  He  had  promised  in  his 
letter  that  if  Johnnie  came  on  a  Sunday  evening  he 
would  walk  up  the  road  a  piece  and  meet  her.  She 
now  began  to  hope  that  he  would  come.  Then,  wait 
ing  for  him,  she  forgot  him,  and  set  herself  to  imagine 
what  work  in  the  cotton  mill  and  life  in  town  would 
be  like. 

To  Shade  Buckheath,  strolling  up  the  road,  in  the 
expansiveness  of  his  holiday  mood  and  the  dignity 
of  his  Sunday  suit,  the  first  sight  of  Johnnie  came  with 
a  little  unwelcome  shock.  He  had  left  her  in  the 
mountains  a  tall,  thin,  sandy-haired  girl  in  the  growing 
age.  He  got  his  first  sight  of  her  profile  relieved  against 
the  green  of  the  wayside  bank,  with  a  bunch  of  bloom 
ing  azaleas  starring  its  verdure  behind  her  bright  head. 
He  was  not  artist  enough  to  appreciate  the  picture 
at  its  value;  he  simply  had  the  sudden  resentful  feeling 
of  one  who  has  asked  for  a  hen  and  been  offered  a 
bird  of  paradise.  She  was  tall  and  lithe  and  strong; 
her  thick,  fair  hair,  without  being  actually  curly,  seemed 
to  be  so  vehemently  alive  that  it  rippled  a  bit  in  its 
length,  as  a  swift-flowing  brook  does  over  a  stone. 
It  rose  up  around  her  brow  in  a  roll  that  was  almost 
the  fashionable  coiffure.  Those  among  whom  she 
had  been  bred,  laconically  called  the  colour  red;  but 


THE   BIRTH  OF  AN  AMBITION         21 

in  fact  it  was  only  too  deep  a  gold  to  be  quite  yellow. 
Johnnie's  face,  even  in  repose,  was  always  potentially 
joyous.  The  clear,  wide,  gray  eyes,  under  their 
arching  brows,  the  mobile  lips,  held  as  it  were  the  smile 
in  solution;  when  one  addressed  her  it  broke  swiftly 
into  being,  the  pink  lips  lifting  adorably  above  the  white 
teeth,  the  long  fringed  eyes  crinkling  deliciously  about 
the  corners.  Johnnie  loved  to  laugh,  and  the  heart 
of  any  reasonable  being  was  instantly  moved  to  give 
her  cause. 

For  himself,  the  young  man  was  a  prevalent  type 
among  his  people.  Brown,  well  built,  light  on  his  feet, 
with  heavy  black  hair  growing  low  on  his  forehead, 
and  long  blackish-gray  eyes,  there  was  something 
Latin  in  the  grace  of  his  movements  and  in  his  glance. 
Life  ran  strong  in  Shade  Buckheath.  He  stepped 
with  an  independent  stride  that  was  almost  a  swagger, 
and  already  felt  himself  a  successful  man;  but  that  one 
of  the  tribe  of  borrowing  Passmores  should  presume 
to  such  opulence  of  charm  struck  him  as  well-nigh  im 
pudent.  The  pure  outlines  of  Johnnie's  features,  their 
aristocratic  mould,  the  ruddy  gold  of  her  rich,  cluster 
ing  hair,  those  were  things  it  seemed  to  him  a  good 
mill-hand  might  well  have  dispensed  with.  Then 
the  girl  turned,  saw  him,  and  flashed  him  a  swift 
smile  of  greeting. 

"  It's  mighty  kind  of  you  to  come  up  and  meet  me," 
she  said,  getting  to  her  feet  a  little  awkwardly  on 
account  of  the  shoes,  and  picking  up  her  bundle. 

"I  'lowed  you  might  get  lost,"  bantered  the  young 


22    THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

fellow,  not  offering  to  carry  the  packet  as  they  trudged 
away  side  by  side.  "  How's  everybody  back  on  Unaka  ? 
Has  your  Uncle  Pros  found  his  silver  mine  yet  ?" 

"No,"  returned  Johnnie  seriously,  "but  he's  lookin' 
for  it." 

Shade  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed  so  long  and 
loud  that  it  would  have  been  embarrassing  to  any 
one  less  sound  and  sweet-natured  than  this  girl. 

"I  reckon  he  is,"  said  Buckheath.  "I  reckon  Pros 
Passmore  will  be  lookin'  for  that  silver  mine  when 
Gabriel  blows.  It  runs  in  the  family,  don't  it  ?" 

Johnnie  looked  at  him  and  shook  her  head. 

"You've  been  learnin'  town  ways,  haven't  you?" 
she  asked  simply. 

"You  mean  my  makin'  game  of  the  Passmores?" 
he  inquired  coolly.  "No,  I  never  learned  that  in  the 
settlement;  I  learned  it  in  the  mountains.  I  just  forgot 
your  name  was  Passmore,  that's  all,"  he  added  sar 
castically.  "Are  you  goin'  to  get  mad  about  it?" 

Johnnie  had  put  on  her  slat  sunbonnet  and  pulled 
it  down  so  he  could  not  see  her  face. 

"No,"  she  returned  evenly,  "I'm  not  goin'  to  get 
mad  at  anything.  And  my  name's  not  Passmore, 
either.  My  name  is  Consadine,  and  I  aim  to  be  called 
that.  Uncle  Pros  Passmore  is  my  mother's  uncle, 
and  one  of  the  best  men  that  ever  lived,  I  reckon.  If 
all  the  folks  he's  nursed  in  sickness  or  laid  out  in  death 
was  numbered  over  it  would  be  a-many  a  one;  and  I 
never  heard  him  take  any  credit  to  himself  for  anything 
he  did.  Why,  Shade,  the  last  three  years  of  your 


THE   BIRTH  OF  AN  AMBITION         23 

father's  life  Uncle  Pros  didn't  dare  hunt  his  silver 
mine  much,  because  your  father  was  paralysed  and  had 
to  have  close  waitin'  on,  and  —  and  there  wasn't 
nobody  but  Uncle  Pros,  since  all  his  boys  was  gone 
and-  -" 

"Oh,  say  it.  Speak  out,"  urged  Shade  hardily. 
"You  mean  that  all  us  chaps  had  cut  out  and  left  the 
old  man,  and  there  wasn't  a  cent  of  money  to  pay 
anybody,  and  no  one  but  Pros  Passmore  would  'a' 
been  fool  enough  to  do  such  hard  work  without  pay. 
Well,  I  reckon  you're  about  right.  You  and  me  come 
of  a  mighty  poor  nation  of  folks;  but  I'm  goin'  to  make 
my  pile  and  have  my  share,  if  lookin'  out  for  number 
one  '11  do  it." 

Johnnie  turned  and  regarded  him  curiously.  It 
was  characteristic  of  the  mountain  girl,  and  of  her 
people,  that  she  had  not  on  first  meeting  stared,  vil 
lage  fashion,  at  his  brave  attire;  and  she  seemed  now 
concerned  only  with  the  man  himself. 

"I  reckon  you'll  get  it,"  she  said  meditatively.  "I 
reckon  you  will.  Sometimes  I  think  we  always  get 
just  what  we  deserve  in  this  here  world,  and  that  the 
only  safe  way  is  to  try  to  deserve  something  good. 
I  hope  I  didn't  say  too  much  for  Uncle  Pros;  but  he's 
so  easy  and  say-nothin'  himself,  that  I  just  couldn't 
bear  to  hear  you  laughin'  at  him  and  not  answer  you." 

"I  declare,  you're  plenty  funny!"  Buckheath 
burst  out  boisterously.  "No,  I  ain't  mad  at  you.  I 
kind  o'  like  you  for  stickin'  up  for  the  old  man.  You 
and  me  '11  get  along,  I  reckon." 


24    THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

As  they  moved  forward,  the  man  and  the  girl  fell 
into  more  general  chat,  the  feeling  of  irritation  at 
Johnnie's  beauty,  her  superior  air,  growing  rather 
than  diminishing  in  the  young  fellow's  mind.  How 
dare  Pros  Passmore's  grandniece  carry  a  bright  head 
so  high,  and  flash  such  glances  of  liquid  fire  at  her 
questioner  ?  Shade  looked  sidewise  sometimes  at 
his  companion  as  he  asked  the  news  of  their  mutual 
friends,  and  she  answered.  Yet  when  he  got,  along 
with  her  mild  responses,  one  of  those  glances,  he  was 
himself  strangely  subdued  by  it,  and  fain  to  prop 
his  leaning  prejudices  by  contrasting  her  scant  print 
gown,  her  slat  sunbonnet,  and  cowhide  shoes  with  the 
apparel  of  the  humblest  in  the  village  which  they  were 
approaching. 


CHAPTER  III 

A    PEAK    IN    DARIEN 

SO  WALKING,  and  so  desultorily  talking, 
they  came  out  on  a  noble  white  highway 
that  wound  for  miles  along  the  bluffy  edge 
of  the  upland  overlooking  the  valley  upon  the  one  side, 
fronted  by  handsome  residences  on  the  other. 

It  was  Johnnie's  first  view  of  a  big  valley,  a  river, 
or  a  city.  She  had  seen  the  shoestring  creek  bottoms 
between  the  endless  mountains  among  which  she  was 
born  and  bred,  the  high-hung,  cup-like  depressions  of 
their  inner  fastnesses;  she  was  used  to  the  cool,  clear, 
boulder-checked  mountain  creeks  that  fight  their  way 
down  those  steeps  like  an  armed  man  beating  off 
assailants  at  every  turn;  she  had  been  taken  a  number 
of  times  to  Bledsoe,  the  tiny  settlement  at  the  foot  of 
Unaka  Old  Bald,  where  there  were  two  stores,  a 
blacksmith  shop,  the  post-office  and  the  church. 

Below  her,  now  beginning  to  glow  in  the  evening 
light,  opened  out  one  of  the  finest  valleys  of  the  south 
ern  Appalachees.  Lapped  in  it,  far  off,  shrouded  with 
rosy  mist  which  she  did  not  identify  as  transmuted 
coal  smoke,  a  city  lay,  fretted  with  spires,  already 
sparkling  with  electric  lights,  set  like  a  glittering  boss 
of  jewels  in  the  broad  curve  of  a  shining  river. 

25 


26    THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

Directly  down  the  steep  at  their  feet  was  the  cotton- 
mill  town,  a  suburb  clustered  about  a  half-dozen 
great  factories,  whose  long  rows  of  lighted  windows 
defined  their  black  bulk.  There  was  a  stream  here, 
too;  a  small,  sluggish  thing  that  flowed  from  tank  to 
tank  among  the  factories,  spanned  by  numerous  hand 
rails,  bridged  in  one  place  for  the  wagon-road  to  cross. 
Mills,  valley,  town,  distant  rimming  mountains,  river 
and  creek,  glowed  and  pulsed,  dissolved  and  relimned 
themselves  in  the  uprolling  glory  of  sunset. 

"Oh,  wait  for  me  a  minute,  Shade,"  pleaded  the 
girl,  pulling  off  her  sunbonnet.  .  .  .  "  I  want  to  look. 
.  .  .  Never  in  my  life  did  I  see  anything  so  sightly!" 

"Good  land!"  laughed  the  man,  with  a  note  of 
impatience  in  his  voice.  "You  and  me  was  raised 
on  mountain  scenery,  as  a  body  may  say.  I  should 
think  we'd  both  had  enough  of  it  to  last  us." 

"  But  this  —  this  is  different,"  groped  Johnnie, 
trying  to  explain  the  emotions  that  possessed  her. 
"Look  at  that  big  settlement  over  yon.  I  reckon  it's 
a  city.  It  must  be  Watauga.  It  looks  like  the  - 
the  mansions  of  the  blest,  in  the  big  Bible  that  preacher 
Drane  has,  down  at  Bledsoe." 

"  I  reckon  they're  blest  —  they  got  plenty  of  money," 
returned  Shade,  with  the  cheap  cynicism  of  his 
kind. 

"So  many  houses!"  the  girl  communed  with  her 
self.  "There's  bound  to  be  a-many  a  person  in  all 
them  houses,"  she  went  on.  One  could  read  the 
loving  outreach  to  all  humanity  in  her  tones, 


A  PEAK   IN  DARIEN  27 

" There  is,"  put  in  Shade  caustically.  "There's 
many  a  rogue.  You  want  to  look  out  for  them  tricky 
town  folks  —  a  girl  like  you." 

Had  he  been  more  kind,  he  would  have  said,  "a 
pretty  girl  like  you."  But  Johnnie  did  not  miss  it; 
she  was  used  to  such  as  he  gave,  or  less. 

"Come  on,"  he  urged  impatiently.  "We  won't 
get  no  supper  if  you  don't  hurry." 

Supper!  Johnnie  drew  in  her  breath  and  shook 
her  head.  With  that  scene  unrolled  there,  as  though 
all  the  kingdoms  of  earth  were  spread  before  them 
to  look  upon,  she  was  asked  to  remember  supper! 
Sighing,  but  submissively,  she  moved  to  follow  her 
guide,  a  reluctant  glance  across  her  shoulder,  when  there 
came  a  cry  something  like  that  which  the  wild  geese 
make  when  they  come  over  in  the  spring;  and  a  thing 
with  two  shining,  fiery  eyes,  a  thing  that  purred  like 
a  giant  cat,  rounded  a  curve  in  the  road  and  came 
to  a  sudden  jolting  halt  beside  them. 

Shade  stopped  immediately  for  that.  Johnnie  did 
not  fail  to  recognize  the  vehicle.  Illustrated  maga 
zines  go  everywhere  in  these  days.  In  the  automobile 
rode  a  man,  bare-headed,  dressed  in  a  suit  of  white 
flannels,  strange  to  Johnnie's  eyes.  Beside  him  sat 
a  woman  in  a  long,  shimmering,  silken  cloak,  a  great, 
misty,  silver-gray  veil  twined  round  head  and  hat 
and  tied  in  a  big  bow  under  the  chin.  Johnnie  had  as 
yet  seen  nothing  more  pretentious  than  the  starched 
and  ruffled  flummeries  of  a  small  mountain  watering- 
place.  This  beautiful,  peculiar  looking  garb  had 


28    THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

something  of  the  picturesque,  the  poetic,  about  it, 
that  appealed  to  her  as  the  frocks  worn  at  Chalybeate 
Springs  or  Bledsoe  had  never  done.  She  had  not 
wanted  them.  She  wanted  this.  The  automobile  was 
stopped,  the  young  fellow  in  it  calling  to  Shade: 

"I  wonder  if  you  could  help  me  with  this  thing, 
Buckheath  ?  It's  on  a  strike  again.  Show  me  what 
you  did  to  it  last  time." 

Along  the  edge  of  the  road  at  this  point,  for  safety's 
sake,  a  low  stone  wall  had  been  laid.  Setting  down 
her  bundle,  Johnnie  leaned  upon  this,  and  shared  her 
admiration  between  the  valley  below  and  these  beauti 
ful,  interesting  newcomers.  Her  bonnet  was  pushed 
far  back;  the  wind  ruffled  the  bright  hair  about  her 
forehead;  the  wonder  and  glory  and  delight  of  it  all 
made  her  deep  eyes  shine  with  a  child's  curiosity 
and  avid  wishfulness.  Her  lips  were  parted  in  uncon 
scious  smiles.  White  and  red,  tremulous,  on  tiptoe, 
the  eager  soul  looking  out  of  her  face,  she  was  very 
beautiful.  The  man  in  the  automobile  observed  her 
kindly;  the  woman's  features  she  could  not  quite  see, 
though  the  veil  was  parted. 

Neither  Johnnie  nor  the  driver  of  the  car  saw  the 
quick,  resentful  glance  her  companion  shot  at  the 
city  man  as  Shade  noted  the  latter's  admiring  look  at 
the  girl.  Buckheath  displayed  an  awesome  familiarity 
with  the  machine  and  its  workings,  crawling  under 
the  body,  and  tapping  it  here  and  there  with  a  wrench 
its  driver  supplied.  They  backed  it  and  moved  it 
a  little,  and  seemed  to  be  debating  the  short  turn  which 


A  PEAK  IN  DARIEN  29 

would  take  them  into  the  driveway  leading  up  to  a 
house  on  the  slope  above  the  road. 

Johnnie  continued  to  watch  with  fascinated  eyes; 
Shade  was  on  his  feet  now,  reaching  into  the  bowels 
of  the  machine  to  do  mysterious  things. 

"It's  a  broken  connection/'  he  announced  briefly. 

"Is  the  wire  too  short  to  twist  together?"  inquired 
the  man  in  the  car.  "Will  you  have  to  put  in  a  new 
piece  ?" 

"Uh-huh,"  assented  Buckheath. 

"There's  a  wire  in  that  box  there,"  directed  the 
other. 

Shade  worked  in  silence  for  a  moment. 

"Now  she'll  go,"  I  reckon,"  he  announced,  and 
once  more  the  driver  started  up  his  car.  It  curved 
perilously  near  the  bundle  she  had  set  down,  with  the 
handkerchief  containing  her  cherished  blossom  lying 
atop;  the  mud-guard  swept  this  latter  off,  and  Buck- 
heath  set  a  foot  upon  it  as  he  followed  the  machine 
in  its  progress. 

"Take  care  —  that  was  a  flower,"  the  man  in  the 
auto  warned,  too  late. 

Shade  answered  with  a  quick,  backward-flung  glance 
and  a  little  derisive  laugh,  but  no  words.  The  young 
fellow  stopped  the  machine,  jumped  down,  and  picked 
up  the  coarse  little  handkerchief  which  showed  a  bit 
of  drooping  green  stem  at  one  end  and  a  glimpse  of 
pink  at  the  other. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  presenting  it  to  Johnnie  with 
exactly  the  air  and  tone  he  had  used  in  speaking  to  the 


30    THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

lady  who  was  with  him  in  the  car.  "If  I  had  seen  it  in 
time,  I  might  have  saved  it.  I  hope  it's  not  much  hurt." 

Buckheath  addressed  himself  savagely  to  his  work 
at  the  machine.  The  woman  in  the  auto  glanced  uneas 
ily  up  at  the  house  on  the  slope  above  them.  Johnnie 
looked  into  the  eyes  bent  so  kindly  upon  her,  and  could 
have  worshipped  the  ground  on  w^hich  their  owner 
trod.  Kindness  always  melted  her  heart  utterly,  but 
kindness  with  such  beautiful  courtesy  added  —  this 
was  the  quality  in  flower. 

"  It  doesn't  make  any  differ,"  she  said  softly,  turning 
to  him  a  rapt,  transfigured  face.  "It's  just  a  bloom 
I  brought  from  the  mountains  —  they  don't  grow 
in  the  valley,  and  I  found  this  one  on  my  way  down." 

The  man  wondered  a  little  if  it  were  only  the  glow 
of  the  sunset  that  lit  her  face  with  such  shining  beauty; 
he  noted  how  the  fires  of  it  flowed  over  her  bright, 
blown  hair  and  kindled  its  colour,  how  it  lingered  in 
the  clear  eyes,  and  flamed  upon  the  white  neck  and 
throat  till  they  had  almost  the  translucence  of  pearl. 

"  I  think  this  thing  '11  work  now  —  for  a  spell,  any 
how,"  Shade  Buckheath's  voice  sounded  sharply  from 
the  road  behind  them. 

"Are  you  afraid  to  attempt  it,  Miss  Sessions?"  the 
young  man  called  to  his  companion.  "  If  you  are, 
we'll  walk  up,  I'll  telephone  at  the  house  for  a  trap 
and  we'll  drive  back  —  Buckheath  will  take  the  ma 
chine  in  for  us." 

The  voice  was  even  and  low-toned,  yet  every  word 
came  to  Johnnie  distinctly.  She  watched  with  a  sort 


A  PEAK  IX  DARIEN  31 

of  rapture  the  movements  of  this  party.  The  man's 
hair  was  dark  and  crisp,  and  worn  a  little  long  about 
the  temples  and  ears;  he  had  pleasant  dark  eyes  and 
an  air  of  being  slightly  amused,  even  when  he  did  not 
smile.  The  lady  apparently  said  that  she  was  not 
afraid,  for  her  companion  got  in,  the  machine  nego 
tiated  the  turn  safely  and  began  to  move  slowly  up  the 
steep  ascent.  As  it  did  so,  the  driver  gave  another 
glance  toward  where  the  mountain  girl  stood,  a  swift, 
kind  glance,  and  a  smile  that  stayed  with  her  after 
the  shining  car  had  disappeared  in  the  direction  of 
the  wide-porched  building  where  people  were  laughing 
and  calling  to  each  other  and  moving  about  —  people 
dressed  in  beautiful  garments  which  Johnnie  would 
fain  have  inspected  more  closely. 

Buckheath  stood  gazing  at  her  sarcastically. 

"Come  on,"  he  ordered,  as  she  held  back,  lingering. 
"  They  ain't  no  good  in  you  hangin'  'round  here.  That 
was  Mr.  Gray  Stoddard,  and  the  lady  he's  beauin' 
is  Miss  Lydia  Sessions,  Mr.  Hardwick's  sister-in-law. 
He's  for  such  as  her  —  not  for  you.  He's  the  boss  of 
the  bosses  down  at  Cottonville.  No  use  of  you  lookin' 
at  him." 

Johnnie  scarcely  heard  the  words.  Her  eyes  were 
on  the  wide  porch  of  the  house  above  them. 

"What  is  that  place  :"  she  inquired  in  an  awestruck 
whisper,  as  she  fell  into  step  submissively,  plodding 
with  bent  head  at  his  shoulder. 

"The  Country  Club,"  Shade  flung  back  at  her. 
"  Did  you  'low  it  was  heaven  ?" 


32 

Heaven!  Johnnie  brooded  on  that  for  a  long  time. 
She  turned  her  head  stealthily  for  a  last  glimpse  of 
the  portico  where  a  laughing  girl  tossed  a  ball  to  a 
young  fellow  on  the  terrace  below.  After  all,  heaven 
was  not  so  far  amiss.  She  had  rather  associated  it 
with  the  abode  of  the  blest.  The  people  in  it  were 
happy;  they  moved  in  beautiful  raiment  all  day  long; 
they  spoke  to  each  other  kindly.  It  was  love's  home, 
she  was  sure  of  that.  Then  her  mind  went  back  to 
the  dress  of  the  girl  in  the  auto. 

"I'm  a-going  to  have  me  a  frock  like  that  before 
I  die,"  she  said,  half  unconsciously,  yet  with  a  sudden 
passion  of  resolution.  "Yes,  if  I  live  I'm  a-goin' 
to  have  me  just  such  a  frock." 

Shade  wheeled  in  his  tracks  with  a  swift  narrowing 
of  the  slate-gray  eyes.  He  had  been  more  stirred  tfcan 
he  was  willing  to  acknowledge  by  the  girl's  beauty, 
and  by  a  nameless  power  that  went  out  from  the  seem 
ingly  helpless  creature  and  laid  hold  of  those  with 
whom  she  came  in  contact.  It  was  the  open  admira 
tion  of  young  Stoddard  which  had  roused  the  sullen 
resentment  he  was  now  spending  on  her. 

"Ye  air,  air  ye?"  he  demanded  sharply.  "You're 
a-goin'  to  have  a  frock  like  that  ?  And  what  man's, 
a-goin'  to  pay  for  it,  I'd  like  to  know?" 

Such  talk  belonged  to  the  valley  and  the  settlement. 
In  the  mountains  a  woman  works,  of  course,  and  earns 
her  board  and  keep.  She  is  a  valuable  industrial 
possession  or  chattel  to  the  man,  who  may  profit  by 
her  labour;  never  a  luxury  —  a  bill  of  expense.  As 


A  PEAK  IN  DARIEN  33 

she  walked,  Johnnie  nodded  toward  the  factory  in 
the  valley,  beginning  to  blaze  with  light  —  her  bridge  of 
toil,  that  was  to  carry  her  from  the  island  of  Nowhere 
to  the  great  mainland  of  Life,  where  everything  might 
be  had  for  the  working,  the  striving. 

"I  didn't  name  no  man,"  she  said  mildly.  "I  don't 
reckon  anybody's  goin'  to  give  me  things.  Ain't  there 
the  factory  where  a  body  may  work  and  earn  money 
for  all  they  need  ?" 

"Well,  I  reckon  they  might,  if  they  was  good  and 
careful  to  need  powerful  little,"  allowed  Shade. 

At  the  moment  they  came  to  the  opening  of  a  small 
path  which  plunged  abruptly  down  the  steep  side  of 
the  ridge,  curving  in  and  out  with  —  and  sometimes 
across  —  a  carriage  road.  As  they  took  the  first  steps 
Oii*this  the  sun  forsook  the  valley  at  last,  and  lingered 
only  on  the  mountain  top  where  was  that  Palace  of 
Pleasure  into  which  He  and  She  had  vanished,  before 
which  the  strange  chariot  waited.  And  all  at  once 
the  little  brook  that  wound,  a  golden  thread,  between 
the  bulk  of  the  mills,  flowed,  a  stream  of  ink,  from 
pool  to  pool  of  black  water.  The  way  down  turned 
and  turned;  and  each  time  that  Shade  and  Johnnie 
got  another  sight  of  the  buildings  of  the  little  village 
below,  they  had  changed  in  character  with  the  changing 
point  of  view.  They  loomed  taller,  they  looked  darker 
in  spite  of  the  pulsing  light  from  their  many  windows. 

And  now  there  burst  out  a  roar  of  whistles,  like 
the  bellowing  of  great  monsters.  Somehow  it  struck 
cold  upon  the  girl's  heart.  They  were  coming  down 


34    THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

from  that  wonderful  highland  where  she  had  seemed 
to  see  all  the  kingdoms  of  earth  spread  before  her, 
hers  for  the  conquering;  they  were  descending  into 
the  shadow. 

As  they  came  quite  to  the  foot  they  saw  groups  of 
women  and  children,  with  here  and  there  a  decrepit 
man,  leaving  the  cottages  and  making  their  way  toward 
the  lighted  mills.  From  the  doors  of  little  shanties 
tired-faced  women  with  boys  and  girls  walking  near 
them,  and,  in  one  or  two  cases,  very  small  ones  cling 
ing  to  their  skirts  and  hands,  reinforced  the  crowd 
which  set  in  a  steady  stream  toward  the  bridges  and 
the  open  gates  in  the  high  board  fences. 

"What  are  they  a-goin'  to  the  factory  for  on  Sun 
day  evening?"  Johnnie  inquired. 

"Night  turn,"  replied  Buckheath  briefly.  "Sun 
day's  over  at  sundown." 

"Oh,  yes,"  agreed  Johnnie  dutifully,  but  rather 
disheartened.  "  Trade  must  be  mighty  good  if  they 
have  to  work  all  night." 

"Them  that  works  don't  get  any  more  for  it," 
retorted  Shade  harshly. 

"What's  the  little  ones  goin'  to  the  mill  for?" 
Johnnie  questioned,  staring  up  at  him  with  appre 
hensive  eyes. 

"  Why,  to  play,  I  reckon,"  returned  the  young  fellow 
ironically.  "Folks  mostly  does  go  to  the  mill  to  play, 
don't  they  ?" 

The  girl  ran  forward  and  clasped  his  arm  with 
eager  fingers  that  shook. 


A  PEAK  IN  DARIEN  35 

"Shade!"  she  cried;  "they  can't  work  those  little 
babies.  That  one  over  there  ain't  to  exceed  four 
year  old,  and  I  know  it." 

The  man  looked  indifferently  to  where  a  tiny  boy 
trotted  at  his  mother's  heels,  solemn,  old-faced,  unchild- 
ish.  He  laughed  a  little. 

"That  thar  chap  is  the  oldest  feller  in  the  mills," 
he  said.  "That's  Benny  Tarbox.  He's  too  short 
to  tend  a  frame,  but  his  maw  lets  him  help  her  at  the 
loom  —  every  weaver  has  obliged  to  have  helpers 
wait  on  'em.  You'll  get  used  to  it." 

Get  used  to  it!  She  pulled  the  sunbonnet  about 
her  face.  The  gold  was  all  gone  from  the  earth,  and 
from  her  mood  as  well.  She  raised  her  eyes  to  where 
the  last  brightness  lingered  on  the  mountain-top.  Up 
there  they  were  happy.  And  even  as  her  feet  carried 
her  forward  to  Pap  Himes's  boarding-house,  her  soul 
went  clamouring,  questing  back  toward  the  heights, 
and  the  sunlight,  the  love  and  laughter,  she  had  left 
behind. 

"The  power  and  the  glory  —  the  power  and  the 
glory,"  she  whispered  over  and  over  to  herself.  "Is 
it  all  back  there  ?"  Again  she  looked  wistfully  toward 
the  heights.  "But  maybe  a  body  with  two  feet  can 
climb." 


CHAPTER  IV 

OF   THE    USE    OF    FEET 

THE  suburb  of  Cottonville  bordered  a  creek,  a 
starveling,  wet-weather  stream  which  offered 
the  sole  suggestion  of  sewerage.  The  village 
was  cut  in  two  by  this  natural  division.  It  clung  to  the 
shelving  sides  of  the  shallow  ravine;  it  was  scattered 
like  bits  of  refuse  on  the  numerous  railroad  embank 
ments,  where  building  was  unhandy  and  streets  almost 
impossible,  to  be  convenient  to  the  mills.  Six  big 
factories  in  all,  some  on  one  side  of  the  state  line  and 
some  on  the  other,  daily  breathed  in  their  live  current 
of  operatives  and  exhaled  them  again  to  fill  the  litter 
of  flimsy  shanties. 

The  road  which  wound  down  from  the  heights  ran 
through  the  middle  of  the  village  and  formed  its  main 
street.  Across  the  ravine  from  it,  reached  by  a  wooden 
bridge,  stood  a  pretentious  frame  edifice,  a  boarding- 
house  built  by  the  Gloriana  mill  for  the  use  of  its  office 
force  and  mechanics.  Men  were  lounging  on  the  wide 
porches  of  this  structure  in  Sabbath-afternoon  leisure, 
smoking  and  singing.  The  young  Southern  male  of 
any  class  is  usually  melodious.  Across  the  hollow 
came  the  sounds  of  a  guitar  and  a  harmonica. 

"Listen    a    minute,    Shade.     Ain't   that   pretty?     I 

36 


OF  THE  USE  OF  FEET  37 

know  that  tune,"  said  Johnnie,  and  she  began  to  hum 
softly  under  her  breath,  her  girlish  heart  responding 
to  the  call. 

"Hush,"  admonished  Buckheath  harshly.  "You 
don't  want  to  be  runnin'  after  them  fellers.  It's  some 
of  the  loom-fixers." 

In  silence  he  led  the  way  past  the  great  mill  buildings 
of  red  brick,  square  and  unlovely  but  many-windowed 
and  glowing,  alight,  throbbing  with  the  hum  of  pent 
industry.  Johnnie  gazed  steadily  up  at  those  windows; 
the  glow  within  was  other  than  that  which  gilded 
turret  and  pinnacle  and  fairy  isle  in  the  Western  sky, 
yet  perchance  this  light  might  be  a  lamp  to  the  feet 
of  one  who  wished  to  climb  that  way.  Her  adventur 
ous  spirit  rose  to  the  challenge,  and  she  said  softly,  more 
to  herself  than  to  the  man: 

"I'm  a-goin'  to  be  a  boss  hand  in  there.  I'm  goin' 
to  get  the  highest  wages  of  any  girl  in  the  mill,  time 
I  learn  my  trade,  because  I'm  goin'  to  try  harder  'n 
anybody." 

Shade  looked  around  at  her,  curiously.  Her  beauty, 
her  air  of  superiority,  still  repelled  him  —  such  fancy 
articles  were  not  apt  to  be  of  much  use  —  but  this 
sounded  like  a  woman  who  might  be  valuable  to  her 
master. 

Johnnie  returned  his  gaze  with  the  frank  good  will 
of  a  child,  and  suddenly  he  forgot  everything  but  the 
adorable  lift  of  her  pink  lip  over  the  shining  white 
teeth. 

The  young  fellow  now  halted  at  the  step  of  a  big  frame 


38    THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

house.  The  outside  was  of  an  extent  to  seem  fairly 
pretentious;  yet  so  mean  was  the  construction,  so  spar 
ing  of  window  and  finish,  that  the  building  showed  itself 
instantly  for  what  it  was  —  the  cheap  boarding-house 
of  a  mill  town.  A  group  of  tired-looking  girls  sitting 
on  the  step  in  blessed  Sunday  idleness  and  cheap 
Sunday  finery  stared  as  he  and  Johnnie  ascended  and 
crossed  the  porch.  One  of  these,  a  tall  lank  woman 
of  perhaps  thirty  years,  got  up  and  followed  a  few  hesi 
tating  paces,  apparently  more  as  a  matter  of  curiosity 
than  with  any  hospitable  intent. 

A  man  with  a  round  red  face  and  a  bald  pate  whose 
curly  fringe  of  grizzled,  reddish  hair  made  him  look  like 
a  clown  in  a  pantomime,  motioned  them  with  a  surly 
thumb  toward  the  back  of  the  house,  where  clattering 
preparations  for  supper  were  audible  and  odoriferous. 
The  old  fellow  sat  in  a  splint-bottomed  chair  of  extra 
size  and  with  arms.  This  he  had  kicked  back  against 
the  wall  of  the  house,  so  that  his  short  legs  did  not 
reach  the  floor,  the  big  carpet-slippered  feet  finding 
rest  on  the  rung  of  the  chair.  His  attitude  was  one 
of  relaxation.  The  face,  broad,  flat,  small  of  eye 
and  wide  of  mouth,  did  indeed  suggest  the  clown  coun 
tenance;  yet  there  was  in  it,  and  in  the  whole  personality, 
something  of  the  Eastern  idol,  the  journeyman  attempt 
of  crude  humanity  to  represent  power.  And  the  potential 
cruelty  of  the  type  slept  in  his  placid  countenance  as 
surely  as  ever  in  the  dreaming  faceof  Shiva,  the  destroyer. 

"  Mrs.  Bence  —  Aunt  Mavity,"  called  Shade,  advanc 
ing  into  the  narrow  hall.  In  answer  a  tired-faced 


OF  THE  USE  OF  FEET  39 

woman  came  from  the  kitchen,  wiping  her  hands 
on  her  checked  apron. 

"Good  Lord,  if  it  ain't  Johnnie!  I  was  'feared 
she  wouldn't  git  here  to-night,"  she  ejaculated  when 
she  saw  the  girl.  "Take  her  out  on  the  porch,  Shade; 
I  ain't  got  a  minute  now.  Pap's  poorly  again,  and 
I'm  obliged  to  put  the  late  supper  on  the  table  for  them 
thar  gals  —  the  night  shift's  done  eat  and  gone.  I'll 
show  her  whar  she's  to  sleep  at,  after  while.  I  don't 
just  rightly  know  whar  Pap  aimed  to  have  her  stay," 
she  concluded  hastily,  as  something  boiled  over  on  the 
stove.  Johnnie  set  her  bundle  down  in  the  corner 
of  the  kitchen. 

"I'll  help,"  she  said  simply,  as  she  drew  the  excited 
coffee-pot  to  a  corner  of  the  range  and  dosed  it  judi 
ciously  with  cold  water. 

"Well,  now,  that's  mighty  good  of  you,"  panted 
worried  Mavity  Bence.  "How  queer  things  comes 
'round,"  she  ruminated  as  they  dished  up  the  biscuits 
and  fried  pork.  "I  helped  you  into  the  very  world, 
Johnnie.  I  lived  neighbour  to  your  maw,  and  they 
wasn't  nobody  else  to  be  with  her  when  you  was  born, 
and  I  went  over.  I  never  suspicioned  that  you  would 
be  helpin'  me  git  supper  down  here  in  the  settlement 
inside  o'  twenty  year." 

Johnnie  ran  and  fetched  and  carried,  as  though  she 
had  never  done  anything  else  in  her  life,  intent  on  the 
one  task.  She  was  alive  in  every  fibre  of  her  young 
body;  she  saw,  she  heard,  as  these  words  cannot  always 
be  truthfully  applied  to  people. 


40   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

"Did  Shade  tell  you  anything  about  Louvania?" 
inquired  the  woman  at  length. 

"No,"  replied  Johnnie  softly,  "but  I  seen  it  in  the 
paper." 

Louvania  Bence,  the  only  remaining  child  of  the 
widow,  had,  two  weeks  before,  left  her  work  at  the 
mill,  taken  the  trolley  in  to  Watauga,  walked  out  upon 
the  county  bridge  across  the  Tennessee  and  jumped 
off.  Johnnie  had  read  the  published  account,  passed 
from  hand  to  hand  in  the  mountains  where  Pap  Himes 
and  Mavity  Bence  had  troops  of  kin  and  where  Lou 
vania  was  born.  The  statement  ran  that  there  was  no 
love  affair,  and  that  the  girl's  distaste  for  her  work 
at  the  cotton  mill  must  have  been  the  reason  for  the 
suicide. 

"That  there  talk  in  the  newspaper  wasn't  right," 
Louvania's  mother  choked.  "They  wasn't  a  word 
of  truth  in  it.  You  know  in  reason  that  if  Louvany 
hated  to  work  in  the  mill  as  bad  as  all  that  she'd  have 
named  it  to  me  —  her  own  mother  —  and  she  never 
did.  She  never  spoke  a  word  like  it,  only  to  say  now 
and  ag'in,  as  we  all  do,  that  it  was  hard,  and  that  she'd 
-  well,  she  did  'low  she'd  ruther  be  dead,  as  gals  will; 
but  she  couldn't  have  meant  it.  Do  you  think  she 
could  have  meant  it,  Johnnie?" 

The  faded  eyes,  clouded  now  by  tears,  stared  up  into 
Johnnie's  clear  young  orbs. 

"Of  course  she  couldn't  have  meant  it,"  Johnnie 
comforted  her.  "Why,  I'm  sure  it's  fine  to  work  in 
the  mill.  If  she  didn't  feel  so,  she'd  have  told  you  the 


OF  THE  USE   OF  FEET  41 

first  thing.  She  must  have  been  out  of  her  mind. 
People  always  are  when  they  —  do  that." 

"That's  what  I  keep  a-thinkin',"  the  poor  mother 
said,  clinging  pathetically  to  that  which  gave  her 
consolation  and  cheer.  "  I  say  to  myself  that  it  must 
have  been  some  brain  disease  took  her  all  of  a  sudden 
and  made  her  crazy  that-a-way;  because  God  knows 
she  had  nothing  to  fret  her  nor  drive  her  to  such." 

By  this  time  the  meal  was  on  the  table,  and  the 
girls  trooped  in  from  the  porch.  The  old  man  with  the 
bald  pate  was  seating  himself  at  the  head  of  the  board, 
and  Johnnie  asked  the  privilege  of  helping  wait  on  table. 

"No,  you  ain't  a-goin'  to,"  Mrs.  Bence  said  hos 
pitably,  pushing  her  into  a  seat.  "If  you  start  in  to 
work  in  the  morning,  like  I  reckon  you  will,  you  ain't 
got  no  other  time  to  get  acquainted  with  the  gals  but 
right  now.  You  set  down.  We  don't  take  much 
waitin'  on.  We  all  pass  things,  and  reach  for  what 
we  want." 

In  the  smoky  illumination  of  the  two  ill-cleaned 
lamps  which  stood  one  at  each  end  of  the  table, 
Johnnie's  fair  face  shone  out  like  a  star.  The  tall 
woman  who  had  shown  a  faint  interest  in  them  on 
the  porch  was  seated  just  opposite.  Her  bulging 
light-blue  eyes  scarcely  left  the  newcomer's  countenance 
as  she  absent-mindedly  filled  her  mouth.  She  was  a 
scant,  stringy-looking  creature,  despite  her  height; 
the  narrow  back  was  hooped  like  that  of  an  old  woman 
and  the  shoulders  indrawn,  so  that  the  chest  was 
cramped,  and  sent  forth  a  wheezy,  flatted  voice  that 


42    THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

sorted  ill  with  her  inches;  her  round  eyes  had  no 
speculation  in  them;  her  short  chin  was  obstinate  with 
out  power;  the  thin,  half-gray  hair  that  wanted  to 
curl  feebly  about  her  lined  forehead  was  stripped 
away  and  twisted  in  a  knot  no  bigger  than  a  walnut, 
at  the  back  of  a  bent  head. 

For  some  time  the  old  man  at  the  end  of  the  table 
stowed  himself  methodically  with  victuals;  his  air  was 
that  of  a  man  packing  a  box;  then  he  brought  his 
implements  to  half-rest,  as  it  were,  and  gave  a  divided 
attention  to  the  new  boarder. 

"What  did  I  hear  them  call  yo'  name?"  he  inquired 
gruffly. 

Johnnie  repeated  her  title  and  gave  him  one  of 
those  smiles  that  went  with  most  of  her  speeches. 
It  seemed  to  suggest  things  to  the  old  sinner. 

"Huh,"  he  grunted;  "I  riccollect  ye  now.  Yo' 
pap  was  a  Consadine,  but  you're  old  Virgil  Passmore's 
grandchild.  One  of  the  borryin'  Passmores,"  he 
added,  staring  coolly  at  Johnnie.  "Virge  was  a  fine, 
upstandin'  old  man.  You've  got  the  favour  of  him 
-  if  you  wasn't  a  gal." 

He  evidently  shared  Schopenhauer's  distaste  for 
"the  low-statured,  wide-hipped,  narrow-shouldered 
sex." 

The  girls  about  the  table  were  all  listening  eagerly. 
Johnnie  had  the  sensation  of  a  freshman  who  has 
walked  out  on  the  campus  too  well  dressed. 

"Virge  was  a  great  beau  in  his  day,"  continued  Pap, 
reminiscently.  "He  liked  to  wear  good  clothes,  too. 


43 

I  mind  how  he  borried  Abner  Wimberly's  weddin' 
coat  and  wore  it  something  like  ten  year  —  showed  it  off 
fine  —  it  fitted  him  enough  sight  better  than  it  ever 
fitted  little  old  Ab.  Then  he  comes  back  to  Wimberly 
at  the  end  of  so  long  a  time  with  the  buttons.  He  says, 
says  he,  'Looks  like  that  thar  cloth  yo'  coat  was  made 
of  wasn't  much  'count,  Ab,'  says  he.  'I  think  Jeeters 
cheated  ye  on  it.  But  the  buttons  was  good.  The 
buttons  wore  well.  And  them  I'm  bringin'  back, 
'caze  you  may  have  use  for  'em,  and  I  have  none, 
now  the  coat's  gone.  Also,  what  I  borry  I  return,  as 
everybody  knows.'  That  was  your  granddaddy." 

There  was  a  tremendous  giggling  about  the  board 
as  the  old  man  made  an  end.  Johnnie  herself  smiled, 
though  her  face  was  scarlet.  She  had  no  words  to  tell 

O 

her  tormentor  that  the  borrowing  trait  in  her  tribe 
which  had  earned  them  the  name  of  the  borrowing 
Passmores  proceeded  not  from  avarice,  which  ate 
into  Pap  Himes's  very  marrow,  but  from  its  reverse 
trait  of  generosity.  She  knew  vaguely  that  they  would 
have  shared  with  a  neighbour  their  last  bite  or  dollar, 
and  had  thus  never  any  doubt  of  being  shared  with 
nor  any  shame  in  the  asking. 

"Yes,"  pursued  Himes,  surveying  Johnnie  chuck- 
lingly,  "I  mind  when  you  was  born.  Has  your  Uncle 
Pros  found  his  silver  mine  yet?" 

"My  mother  has  often  told  me  how  good  you  and 
Mrs.  Bence  was  to  us  when  I  was  little,"  answered 
Johnnie  mildly.  "No,  sir,  Uncle  Pros  hasn't  found 
his  silver  mine  yet  —  but  he's  still  a-hunting  for  it." 


44    THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

The  reply  appeared  to  delight  Himes.  He  laughed 
immoderately,  even  as  Buckheath  had  done. 

"I'll  bet  he  is,"  he  agreed.  "Pros  Passmore's 
goin'  to  hunt  that  there  silver  mine  till  he  finds  another 
hole  in  the  ground  about  six  feet  long  and  six  feet  deep 
-  that's  what  he's  a-goin'  to  do." 

The  hasty  supper  was  well  under  way  now.  Mrs. 
Bence  brought  the  last  of  the  hot  bread,  and  shuffled 
into  a  seat.  The  old  man  at  the  head  of  the  board 
returned  to  his  feeding,  but  with  somewhat  moderated 
voracity.  At  length,  pretty  fully  gorged,  he  raised 
his  head  from  over  his  plate  and  looked  about  him  for 
diversion.  Again  his  attention  was  directed  to  the  new 
girl. 

"Air  ye  wedded?"   he  challenged  suddenly. 

She   shook   her   head   and   laughed. 

"Got  your  paigs  sot  for  to  git  any  one?"  he  fol 
lowed  up  his  investigations. 

Johnnie  laughed  more  than  ever,  and  blushed 
again. 

"How  old  air  ye?"  demanded  her  inquisitor. 
"Eighteen?  'Most  nineteen?  Good  Lord!  You're 
a  old  maid  right  now.  Well,  don't  you  let  twenty 
go  by  without  gittin'  your  hooks  on  a  man.  My  ex 
perience  is  that  when  a  gal  gits  to  be  twenty  an' 
ain't  wedded  —  or  got  her  paigs  sot  for  to  wed  —  she's 
left.  Left,"  he  concluded  impressively. 

That  quick  smile  of  Johnnie's  responded. 

"I  reckon  I'll  do  my  best,"  she  agreed  reasonably; 
"but  some  folks  can  do  that  and  miss  it." 


OF  THE  USE  OF  FEET  45 

Himes  nodded  till  he  set  the  little  red  curls  all 
bobbing  around  the  bare  spot. 

"Uh-huh,"  he  approved,  "I  reckon  that's  so. 
Women  is  plenty,  and  men  hard  to  git.  Here's  Mandy 
Meacham,  been  puttin'  in  her  best  licks  for  thirty  year 
or  more,  an'  won't  never  make  it." 

Johnnie  did  not  need  to  be  told  which  one  was 
Mandy.  The  sallow  cheek  of  the  tall  woman  across 
from  her  reddened;  the  short  chin  wabbled  a  bit  more 
than  the  mastication  of  the  biscuit  in  hand  demanded; 
a  moisture  appeared  in  the  inexpressive  blue  eyes; 
but  she  managed  a  shaky  laugh  to  assist  the  chorus 
which  always  followed  Pap  Himes's  little  jokes. 

The  old  man  held  a  sort  of  state  among  these  poor 
girls,  and  took  tribute  of  admiration,  as  he  had  taken 
tribute  of  life  and  happiness  from  daughter  and 
granddaughter.  Gideon  Himes  was  not  actively  a 
bad  man;  he  was  as  without  personal  malice  as  malaria. 
When  it  makes  miserable  those  about  it,  or  robs  a  eirl 

*  o 

of  her  pink  cheeks,  her  bright  eyes,  her  joy  of  life, 
wearing  the  elasticity  out  of  her  step  and  making  an 
old  woman  of  her  before  her  time,  we  do  not  fly  into 
a  rage  at  it  —  we  avoid  it.  The  Pap  Himeses  of  this 
world  are  to  be  avoided  if  possible. 

Mandy  stared  at  her  plate  in  mortified  silence. 
Johnnie  wished  she  could  think  of  something  pleasant 
to  say  to  the  poor  thing,  when  her  attention  was 
diverted  by  the  old  man  once  more  addressing  herself. 

"You  look  stout  and  hearty;  if  you  learn  to  weave 
as  fast  as  you  ort,  and  git  so  you  can  tend  five  or  six 


46    THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

looms,  I'll  bet  you  git  a  husband,"  he  remarked  in  a 
burst  of  generosity.  "I'll  bet  you  do;  and  what's 
more,  I'll  speak  a  good  word  for  ye.  A  gal  that's  a 
peart  weaver's  mighty  apt  to  find  a  man.  You  learn 
your  looms  if  you  want  to  git  wedded  —  and  I  know 
in  reason  you  do  —  it's  about  all  gals  of  your  age 
thinks  of." 

When  supper  was  over  Johnnie  was  a  little  surprised 
to  see  the  tall  woman  approach  Pap  Himes  like  a  small 
child  begging  a  favour  of  a  harsh  taskmaster. 

"Can't  that  there  new  girl  bunk  with  me?"  she 
inquired  earnestly. 

"I  had  the  intention  to  give  her  Louvany's  bed," 
Pap  returned  promptly.  "As  long  as  nobody's  with 
you,  I  reckon  I 'don't  care;  but  if  one  comes  in,  you 
take  'em,  and  she  goes  with  Mavity,  mind.  I  cain't 
waste  room,  poor  as  I  am." 

Piloted  by  the  tall  girl,  Johnnie  climbed  the  narrow 
stair  to  a  long  bare  room  where  a  row  of  double  beds 
accommodated  eight  girls.  The  couch  she  was  to 
occupy  had  been  slept  in  during  the  day  by  a  mill  hand 
who  was  on  night  turn,  and  it  had  not  been  remade. 
Deftly  Johnnie  straightened  and  spread  it,  while  her 
partner  grumbled. 

"What's  the  use  o'  doin'  that?"  Mandy  inquired, 
stretching  herself  and  yawning  portentously.  "We'll 
jist  muss  it  all  up  in  about  two  minutes.  When  you've 
worked  in  a  mill  as  long  as  I  have  you'll  git  over  the 
notion  of  makin'  your  bed,  for  hit's  but  a  notion." 

Johnnie  laughed  across  her  shoulder. 


OF  THE   USE  OF  FEET  47 

"I'd  just  as  soon  do  it,"  she  reassured  her  compan 
ion.  "I  do  love  smooth  bedclothes;  looks  like  I  dream 
better  on  'em  and  under  'em." 

Mandy  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  interfering 
considerably  with  the  final  touches  Johnnie  was  putting 
to  it. 

"You're  a  right  good  gal,"  she  opined  patronizingly, 
"but  foolish.  The  new  ones  always  is  foolish.  I  can 
put  you  up  to  a-many  a  thing  that'll  help  you  along, 
though,  and  I'm  willin'  to  do  it." 

Again  Johnnie  smiled  at  her,  that  smile  of  enveloping 
sweetness  and  tenderness.  It  made  something  down 
in  the  left  side  of  poor  Mandy's  slovenly  dress-bodice 
vibrate  and  tingle. 

"I'll  thank  you  mightily,"  said  Johnnie  Consadine, 
"  mightily."  And  knew  not  how  true  a  word  she  spoke. 

"You  see,"  counselled  Mandy  from  the  bed  into 
which  she  had  rolled  with  most  of  her  clothes  on, 
"you  want  to  get  in  with  Miss  Lydia  Sessions  and  the 
Uplift  ladies,  and  them  thar  swell  folks." 

Johnnie  nodded,  busily  at  work  making  a  more 
elaborated  night  toilet  than  the  others,  who  were  going 
to  bed  all  about  them,  paying  little  attention  to  their 
conversation. 

"Miss  Lyddy  she  ain't  as  young  as  she  once  was, 
and  the  boys  has  quit  hangin'  'round  her  as  much  as 
they  used  to;  so  now  she  has  took  up  with  good  works," 
the  girl  on  the  bed  explained  with  a  directness  which 
Miss  Sessions  would  not  perhaps  have  appreciated. 
"Her  and  some  other  of  the  nobby  folks  has  started 


48   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

what  they  call  a  Uplift  club  amongst  the  mill  girls. 
Thar's  a  big  room  whar  you  dance  —  if  you  can  - 
and  whar  they  give  little  suppers  for  us  with  not  much 
to  eat;  and  thar's  a  place  where  they  sorter  preach 
to  ye  —  lecture  she  calls  it.  I  don't  know  what-all 
Miss  Lyddy  hain't  got  for  her  club.  But  you  jist  go, 
and  listen,  and  say  how  much  obliged  you  are,  an 
she'll  do  a  lot  for  you,  besides  payin'  your  wages  to 
get  you  out  of  the  mill  any  day  she  wants  you  for  the 
Upliftin'  business." 

Mandy  had  a  gasp,  which  occurred  between  sentences 
and  at  the  end  of  certain  words,  with  grotesque  effect. 
Johnnie  was  to  find  that  this  gasp  was  always  very 
much  to  the  fore  when  Mandy  was  being  uplifted. 
It  then  served  variously  as  the  gasp  of  humility,  grati 
tude,  admiration;  the  gasp  of  chaste  emotion,  the  gasp 
of  reprobation  toward  others  who  did  not  come 
forward  to  be  uplifted. 

"  Did  you  say  there  was  books  at  that  club  ? "  inquired 
Johnnie  out  of  the  darkness  —  she  had  now  extin 
guished  the  light.  "Can  a  body  learn  things  from  the 
lectures  ? " 

"Uh-huh,"  agreed  Mandy  sleepily;  "but  you  don't 
have  to  read  'em  —  the  books.  They  lend  'em  to  you, 
and  you  take  'em  home,  and  after  so  long  a  time  you 
take  'em  back  sayin'  how  much  good  they  done  you. 
That's  the  way.  If  Mr.  Stoddard's  'round,  he'll  ask 
you  questions  about  'em;  but  Miss  Lyddy  won't  - 
she  hates  to  find  out  that  any  of  her  plans  ain't  workin'." 

For  a  long  time  there  was  silence.     Mandy  was  just 


OF  THE  USE   OF  FEET  49 

dropping  off  into  her  first  heavy  sleep,  when  a  whisper 
ing  voice  asked, 

"  Is  Mr.  Stoddard  —  has  he  got  right  brown  eyes 
and  right  brown  hair,  and  does  he  ride  in  one  of  these 
-  one  of  these  - 

"Good  land!"  grumbled  the  addressed,  "I  thought 
it  was  mornin'  and  I  had  to  git  up!  You  ort  to  been 
asleep  long  ago.  Yes,  Mr.  Stoddard's  got  sorter 
brown  eyes  and  hair,  and  he  rides  in  a  otty-mobile. 
How  did  you  know?" 

But  Mandy  was  too  tired  to  stay  awake  to  marvel 
over  that.  Her  rhythmic  snores  soon  proved  that  she 
slept,  while  Johnnie  lay  thinking  of  the  various  proffers 
she  had  that  evening  received  of  a  lamp  to  her  feet, 
a  light  on  her  path.  And  she  would  climb — yes,  she 
would  climb.  Not  by  the  road  Pap  Himes  pointed  out; 
not  by  the  devious  path  Mandy  Meacham  suggested; 
but  by  the  rugged  road  of  good,  honest  toil,  to  heights 
where  was  the  power  and  the  glory,  she  would  certainly 
strive. 

She  conned  over  the  new  things  which  this  day  had 
brought.  Again  she  saw  the  auto  swing  around  the 
curve  and  halt;  she  got  the  outline  of  the  man's  bent 
head  against  the  evening  sky.  They  were  singing  again 
over  at  the  mechanics'  boarding-house;  the  sound  came 
across  to  her  window;  the  vibrant  wires,  the  chorus  of 
deep  male  voices,  even  the  words  she  knew  they  were 
using  but  could  not  distinguish,  linked  themselves 
in  some  fashion  with  memory  of  a  man's  eyes,  his 
smile,  his  air  of  tender  deference  as  he  cherished  her 


50    THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

broken  flower.  Something  caught  in  her  throat  and 
choked.  Her  mind  veered  to  the  figures  on  the  porch 
of  that  Palace  of  Pleasure;  the  girl  with  the  ball  tossing 
it  to  the  young  fellow  below  on  the  lawn.  In  memory 
she  descended  the  hill,  coming  down  into  the  shadows 
with  each  step,  looking  back  to  the  heights  and  the  light. 
Well,  she  had  said  that  if  one  had  feet  one  might 
climb,  and  to-night  the  old  man  had  tried  to  train  her 
to  his  pace  for  attaining  heart's  desire.  In  the  midst 
of  a  jumble  of  autos  and  shining  mill  windows,  she 
watched  the  room  grow  ghostly  with  the  light  of  a  late- 
risen  moon.  Suddenly  afar  off  she  heard  the  "honk! 
honk!  honk!"  which  had  preceded  the  advent  of  the 
car  on  the  ridge  road. 

Getting  up,  she  stole  to  the  one  window  which  the 
long  room  afforded.  It  gave  upon  the  main  street  of 
the  village.  "Honk!  honk!  honk!"  She  gazed  toward 
the  steep  from  which  the  sounds  seemed  to  come. 
There,  flashing  in  and  out  of  the  greenery,  appeared 
half  a  dozen  pairs  of  fiery  eyes.  A  party  of  motorists 
were  going  in  to  Watauga,  starting  from  the  Country 
Club  on  the  Ridge  crest.  Johnnie  watched  them, 
fascinated.  As  the  foremost  car  swept  down  the  road 
and  directly  beneath  her  window,  its  driver,  whom  she 
recognized  with  a  little  shiver,  by  the  characteristic 
carriage  of  his  head,  swerved  the  machine  out  and 
stopped  it  at  the  curb  below.  The  others  passed,  calling 
gay  inquiries  to  him. 

"We're  all  right,"  she  heard  a  well-remembered  voice 
reply.  "You  go  ahead  —  we'll  be  there  before  you." 


OF  THE  USE   OF  FEET  51 

The  slim,  gray-clad  figure  in  the  seat  beside  him 
laughed  softly  and  fluttered  a  white  handkerchief  as 
the  last  car  went  on. 

"Now!"  exulted  the  voice.  "I'll  put  on  my  goggles 
and  cap  and  we'll  show  them  what  running  is. 

'  It's  they'll  take  the  high  road  and  we'll  take  the  low, 
And  we'll  be  in  Watauga  befo-o-ore  them!" 

Even  as  he  spoke  he  adjusted  his  costume,  and 
Johnnie  saw  the  car  shoot  forward  like  a  living  crea 
ture  eager  on  the  trail.  She  sighed  as  she  looked  after 
them. 

Feet  —  of  what  use  were  feet  to  follow  such  a  flight 
as  that  ? 


CHAPTER  V 

THE    MOCCASIN    FLOWER 

JOHNNIE  was  used  to  hardship  and  early  rising, 
but  in  an  intermittent  fashion;  for  the  Passmores 
and  Consadines  were  a  haggard  lot  that  came  to 
no  lure  but  their  own  pleasure.     They   might  —  and 
often  did — go  hungry,  ill-clad,  ill-housed;  they  might 
sometimes  —  in  order  to  keep  soul  and  body  together 
—  have  to  labour  desperately  at  rude  tasks  unsuited  to 
them;  '*but  these  times  were  exceptions,  and   between 
such  seasons,  down   to  the  least  of  the  tribe,  they  had 
always  followed  the  Vision,  pursuing  the  flying  skirts 
of  whatever  ideal  was   in   their  shapely  heads.     The 
little  cabin    in    the    gash  of  the    hills  owned  for  do 
main  a  rocky  ravine  that  was  the  standing  jest  of  the 
mountain-side. 

"Sure,  hit's  good  land  —  fine  land,"  the  moun 
taineers  would  comment  with  their  inveterate,  dry, 
lazy  humour.  "Nothing  on  earth  to  hender  a  man 
from  raisin'  a  crap  off  'n  it  —  ef  he  could  once  git  the 
leathers  on  a  good  stout,  willin'  pa'r  o'  hawks  or  buz 
zards,  an'  a  plough  hitched  to  'em."  And  Johnnie 
could  remember  the  other  children  teasing  her  and 
saying  that  her  folks  had  to  load  a  gun  with  seed  corn 
and  shoot  it  into  the  sky  to  reach  their  fields.  Yet, 

52 


THE   MOCCASIN  FLOWER  53 

the  unmended  roof  covered  much  joy  and  good  feeling. 
They  were  light  feet  that  trod  the  unsecured  puncheons. 
The  Passmores  were  tender  of  each  other's  eccen 
tricities,  admiring  of  each  other's  virtues.  A  wolf 
race  nourished  on  the  knees  of  purple  kings,  how 
should  they  ever  come  down  to  wearing  any  man's 
collar,  to  slink  at  heel  and  retrieve  for  him  ? 

One  would  have  said  that  to  the  daughter  of  such 
the  close  cotton-mill  room  with  its  inhuman  clamour, 
its  fetid  air,  its  long  hours  of  enforced,  monotonous, 
mechanical  toil,  would  be  prison  with  the  torture  added. 
But  Johnnie  looked  forward  to  her  present  enterprise 
as  a  soldier  going  into  a  new  country  to  conquer  it. 
She  was  buoyantly  certain,  and  determinedly  delighted 
with  everything.  When,  the  next  morning  after  her 
arrival,  Mandy  Meacham  shook  her  by  the  shoulder 
and  bade  her  get  up,  the  room  was  humming  with 
the  roar  of  mill  whistles,  and  the  gray  dawn  leaking 
in  at  its  one  window  in  a  churlish,  chary  fashion,  re 
minded  her  that  they  were  under  the  shadow  of  a  moun 
tain  instead  of  living  upon  its  top. 

"I  don't  see  what  in  the  world  could  'a'  made  me 
sleep  so!"  Johnnie  deprecated,  as  she  made  haste  to 
dress  herself.  "Looks  like  I  never  had  nothing  to 
do  yesterday,  except  walking  down.  I've  been  on 
foot  that  much  many  a  time  and  never  noticed  it." 

The  other  girls  in  the  room,  poor  souls,  were  all 
cross  and  sleepy.  Nobody  had  time  to  converse  with 
Johnnie.  As  they  went  down  the  stairs  another  con 
tingent  began  to  straggle  up,  having  eaten  a  hasty 


54    THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

meal  after  their  night's  work,  and  making  now  for 
certain  of  the  just-vacated  beds. 

Johnnie  ran  into  the  kitchen  to  help  Mrs.  Bence 
get  breakfast  on  the  table,  for  Pap  Himes  was  bad  off 
this  morning  with  a  misery  somewhere,  and  his  daughter 
was  sending  word  to  the  cotton  mill  to  put  a  substitute  on 
her  looms  till  dinner  time.  Almost  as  much  to  her  own 
surprise  as  to  that  of  everybody  else,  Mandy  Meacham 
proposed  to  stay  and  take  Johnnie  in  to  register  for  a  job. 

When  the  others  were  all  seated  at  table,  the  new 
girl  from  the  mountains  took  her  cup  of  coffee  and  a 
biscuit  and  dropped  upon  the  doorstep  to  eat  her  break 
fast.  The  back  yard  was  unenclosed,  a  litter  of  tin 
cans  and  ashes  running  with  its  desert  disorder  into 
a  similar  one  on  either  side.  But  there  were  no  houses 
back  of  the  Himes  place,  the  ground  falling  away 
sharply  to  the  rocky  creek  bed.  Across  the  ravine 
half  a  dozen  strapping  young  fellows  were  lounging, 
waiting  for  breakfast;  loom-fixers  and  mechanics 
these,  whose  hours  were  more  favourable  than  those 
of  the  women  and  children  workers. 

"  It's  lots  prettier  out  here  than  it  is  in  the  house," 
she  returned  smilingly,  when  Mavity  Bence  offered 
to  get  her  a  chair.  "I  do  love  to  be  out-of-doors." 

"Huh,"  grunted  Mandy  with  her  mouth  full  of  bis 
cuit,  "  I  reckon  a  cotton  mill'll  jest  about  kill  you. 
What  makes  you  work  in  one,  anyhow  ?  I  wouldn't 
if  I  could  help  it." 

Johnnie  eyed  the  tall  girl  gravely.  "I've  got  to 
earn  some  money,"  she  said  at  length.  "Ma  and  the 


THE   MOCCASIN  FLOWER  55 

children  have  to  be  taken  care  of.  I  don't  know  of 
any  better  way  than  the  mill." 

"An'  I  don't  know  of  any  worse,"  retorted  Mandy 
sourly,  as  they  went  out  together. 

Johnnie  began  to  feel  timid.  There  had  been  a 
secret  hope  that  she  would  meet  Shade  on  the  way  to 
the  mill,  or  that  Mrs.  Bence  would  finally  get  through 
in  time  to  accompany  her.  She  was  suddenly  aware 
that  there  was  not  a  soul  within  sound  of  her  voice 
who  had  belonged  to  her  former  world.  With  a  little 
gasp  she  looked  about  her  as  they  entered  the  office. 

The  Hardwick  mill  to  which  they  now  came  con 
sisted  of  a  number  of  large,  red  brick  buildings,  joined 
by  covered  passage-ways,  abutting  on  one  of  those 
sullen  pools  Johnnie  had  noted  the  night  before,  the 
yard  enclosed  by  a  tight  board  fence,  so  high  that  the 
operatives  in  the  first-  and  second-floor  rooms  could 
not  see  the  street.  This  for  the  factory  portion;  the 
office  did  not  front  on  the  shut-in  yard,  but  opened  out 
freely  on  to  the  street,  through  a  little  grassy  square 
of  its  own,  tree-shadowed,  with  paved  walks  and  flower 
beds.  As  with  all  the  mills  in  its  district,  the  sugges 
tion  was  dangerously  apt  of  a  penitentiary,  with  its 
high  wooden  barrier,  around  all  the  building,  the  only 
free  approach  from  the  world  to  its  corridors  through 
the  seemly,  humanized  office,  where  abided  the  heads, 
the  bosses,  the  free  men,  who  came  and  went  at  will. 
The  walls  were  already  beginning  to  wear  that  gar 
ment  of  green  which  the  American  ivy  flings  over  so 
many  factory  buildings. 


56    THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

As  the  two  girls  came  up,  Johnnie  looked  at  the 
wide,  clear,  plate  windows,  the  brass  railing  that 
guarded  the  heavy  granite  approach,  the  shining  name 
"Hardwick"  deep-set  in  brazen  lettering  on  the  step 
over  which  they  entered.  Inside,  the  polished  oak 
and  metal  of  office  fittings  carried  on  the  idea  of  splen 
dour,  if  not  of  luxury.  Back  of  the  crystal  windows 
were  the  tempering  shades,  all  was  spacious,  ordered 
with  quiet  dignity,  and  there  was  no  sense  of  hurry  in 
the  well-clad,  well-groomed  figures  of  men  that  sat  at 
the  massive  desks  or  moved  about  the  softly  carpeted 
floors.  The  corridor  was  long,  but  cleanly  swept, 
and,  at  its  upper  portion,  covered  with  a  material 
unfamiliar  to  Johnnie,  but  which  she  recognized  as 
suited  to  its  purpose.  Down  at  the  further  end  of  that 
corridor,  something  throbbed  and  moaned  and  roared 
and  growled  —  the  factory  was  awake  there  and 
working.  The  contrast  struck  cold  to  the  girl's 
heart.  Here,  yet  more  sharply  defined,  was  the  same 
difference  she  had  noted  between  the  Palace  of 
Pleasure  on  the  heights  and  the  mills  at  the  foot  of 
the  mountain. 

Would  the  people  think  she  was  good  enough  ? 
Would  they  understand  how  hard  she  meant  to  try  ? 
For  a  minute  she  had  a  desperate  impulse  to  turn  and 
run.  Then  she  heard  Mandy's  thin,  flatted  tones  an 
nouncing: 

"This  hyer  girl  wants  to  git  a  job  in  the  mill.  Miz 
Bence,  she  cain't  come  down  this  morning  —  you'll 
have  to  git  somebody  to  tend  her  looms  till  noon; 


THE   MOCCASIN  FLOWER  57 

Pap,  he's  sick,  and  she  has  obliged  to  wait  on  him  - 
so  I  brung  the  new  gal." 

"All  right,"  said  the  man  she  addressed.  "She 
can  wait  there;  you  go  on  to  your  looms." 

Johnnie  sat  on  the  bench  against  the  wall  where 
newcomers  applying  for  positions  were  placed.  The 
man  she  was  to  see  had  not  yet  come  to  his  desk,  and 
she  remained  unnoticed  and  apparently  forgotten  for 
more  than  an  hour.  The  offices  were  entered  from 
the  other  side,  yet  a  doorway  close  by  Johnnie  com 
manded  a  view  of  a  room  and  desk.  To  it  presently 
came  one  who  seated  himself  and  began  opening  and 
reading  letters.  Johnnie  caught  her  breath  and  leaned 
a  little  forward,  watching  him,  her  heart  in  her  eyes, 
hands  locked  hard  together  in  her  lap.  It  was  the 
young  man  of  the  car.  He  was  not  in  white  flannels 
now,  but  he  looked  almost  as  wonderful  to  the  girl 
in  his  gray  business  suit,  with  the  air  of  easy  com 
mand,  and  the  quiet  half-smile  only  latent  on  his  face. 
Shade  Buckheath  had  spoken  of  Gray  Stoddard  as 
the  boss  of  the  bosses  down  at  Cottonville.  Indeed, 
his  position  was  unique.  Inheritor  of  large  holdings 
in  Eastern  cotton-mill  stock,  he  had  returned  from 
abroad  on  the  death  of  his  father,  to  look  into  this 
source  of  his  very  ample  income.  The  mills  in  which 
he  was  concerned  were  not  earning  as  they  should, 
so  he  was  told;  and  there  was  discussion  as  to  whether 
they  be  moved  south,  or  a  Southern  mill  be  estab 
lished  which  might  be  considered  in  the  nature  of  a 
branch,  and  where  the  coarser  grades  of  sheeting 


58    THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

would  be  manufactured,  as  well  as  all  the  spinning 
done. 

But  Stoddard  was  not  of  the  blood  that  takes  opinions 
second-hand.  Upon  his  mother's  side  he  was  the 
grandson  of  one  of  the  great  anti-slavery  agitators. 
The  sister  of  this  man,  Gray's  great-aunt,  had  stood 
beside  him  on  the  platform  when  there  was  danger 
in  it;  and  after  the  Negro  was  freed  and  enfranchised, 
she  had  devoted  a  long  life  to  the  cause  of  woman 
suffrage.  The  mother  who  bore  him  died  young. 
She  left  him  to  the  care  of  a  conservative  father,  but 
the  blood  that  came  through  her  did  not  make  for 
conservatism. 

Perhaps  it  was  some  admixture  of  his  father's  traits 
which  set  the  young  man  to  investigating  the  cotton- 
mill  situation  in  his  own  fashion.  To  do  this  as  he 
conceived  it  should  be  done,  he  had  hired  himself  to 
the  Hardwick  Spinning  Company  in  an  office  posi 
tion  which  gave  him  a  fair  outlook  on  the  business, 
and  put  him  in  complete  touch  with  the  practical 
side  of  it;  yet  the  facts  of  the  case  made  the  situation 
evident  to  those  under  him  as  well  as  his  peers.  What 
ever  convictions  and  opinions  he  was  maturing  in  this 
year  with  the  Hardwicks,  he  kept  to  himself;  but  he 
was  supposed  to  hold  some  socialistic  ideas,  and 
Lydia  Sessions,  James  Hardwick's  sister-in-law,  made 
her  devoir  to  these  by  engaging  zealously  in  semi- 
charitable  enterprises  among  the  mill-girls.  He  was 
a  passionate  individualist.  The  word  seems  unduly 
fiery  when  one  remembers  the  smiling,  insouciant 


THE  MOCCASIN  FLOWER  59 

manner  of  his  divergences  from  the  conventional 
type;  yet  he  was  inveterately  himself,  and  not  some 
schoolmaster's  or  tailor's  or  barber's  version  of  Gray 
Stoddard;  and  in  this,  though  Johnnie  did  not  know 
it,  lay  the  strength  of  his  charm  for  her. 

The  moments  passed  unheeded  after  he  came  into 
her  field  of  vision,  and  she  watched  him  for  some  time, 
busy  at  his  morning's  work.  It  took  her  breath  when 
he  raised  his  eyes  suddenly  and  their  glances  encoun 
tered.  He  plainly  recognized  her  at  once,  and  nodded 
a  cheerful  greeting.  After  a  while  he  got  up  and  came 
out  into  the  hall,  his  hands  full  of  papers,  evidently 
on  his  way  to  one  of  the  other  offices.  He  paused 
beside  the  bench  and  spoke  to  her. 

"  Waiting  for  the  room  boss  ?  Are  they  going  to 
put  you  on  this  morning?"  he  asked  pleasantly. 

"Yes,  I'm  a-going  to  get  a  chance  to  work  right 
away,"  she  smiled  up  at  him.  "Ain't  it  fine  ?" 

The  smile  that  answered  hers  held  something 
pitying,  yet  it  was  a  pity  that  did  not  hurt  or 
offend. 

"Yes  —  I'm  sure  it's  fine,  if  you  think  so,"  said 
Stoddard,  half  reluctantly.  Then  his  eye  caught  the 
broken  pink  blossom  which  Johnnie  had  pinned  to 
the  front  of  her  bodice.  "What's  that?"  he  asked. 
"It  looks  like  an  orchid." 

He  was  instantly  apologetic  for  the  word;  but 
Johnnie  detached  the  flower  from  her  dress  and  held 
it  toward  him. 

"It  is,"   she   assented.     "It's   an  orchid;    and   the 


60    THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

little  yellow  flower  that  we-all  call  the  whippoorwill's 
shoe  is  an  orchid,  too." 

Stoddard  thrust  his  papers  into  his  coat  pocket, 
and  took  the  blossom  in  his  hand. 

"That's  the  pink  moccasin  flower,"  Johnnie  told 
him.  "They  don't  bloom  in  the  valley  at  all,  and 
they're  not  very  plenty  in  the  mountains.  I  picked 
this  one  six  miles  up  on  White  Oak  Ridge  yesterday. 
I  reckon  I  haven't  seen  more  than  a  dozen  of  them 
in  my  life,  and  I've  hunted  flowers  all  over 
Unaka." 

"I  never  had  the  chance  to  analyze  one,"  observed 
Stoddard.  "I'd  like  to  get  hold  of  a  good  specimen." 

"I'm  sorry  this  one's  broken,"  Johnnie  depre 
cated.  Then  her  clouded  face  cleared  suddenly  with 
its  luminous  smile.  "  If  it  hadn't  been  for  you  I  reckon 
it  would  have  been  knocked  over  the  edge  of  the  road," 
she  added.  "That's  the  flower  I  had  in  my  hand 
kerchief  yesterday  evening." 

Stoddard  continued  to  examine  the  pink  blossom 
with  interest. 

"You  said  it  grew  up  in  the  mountains  —  and 
didn't  grow  in  the  valley,"  he  reminded  her. 

She  nodded.  "Of  course  I'm  not  certain  about 
that,"  and  while  she  spoke  he  transferred  his  attention 
from  the  flower  to  the  girl.  "I  really  know  mighty 
little  about  such  things,  and  I've  not  been  in  the  valley 
to  exceed  ten  times  in  my  life.  Miss  Baird,  that  taught 
the  school  I  went  to  over  at  Rainy  Gap,  had  a  herba 
rium,  and  put  all  kinds  of  pressed  flowers  in  it.  I 


THE  MOCCASIN  FLOWER  61 

gathered  a  great  many  for  her,  and  she  taught  me  to 
analyze  them  —  like  you  were  speaking  of  —  but  I 
never  did  love  to  do  that.  It  seemed  like  naming  over 
and  calling  out  the  ways  of  your  friends,  to  pull  the 
flower  all  to  pieces  and  press  it  and  paste  it  in  a  book 
and  write  down  all  its  —  its  —  ways  and  faults." 

Again  she  smiled  up  at  him  radiantly,  and  the  young 
man's  astonished  glance  went  from  her  dusty,  cowhide 
shoes  to  the  thick  roll  of  fair  hair  on  her  graceful  head. 
What  manner  of  mill-girls  did  the  mountains  send 
down  to  the  valley  ? 

"But  I-  began  Stoddard  deprecatingly,  when 
Johnnie  reddened  and  broke  in  hastily. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  that  for  you.  Miss  Baird 
taught  me  for  three  years,  and  I  loved  her  as  dearly 
as  I  ever  could  any  one.  You  may  keep  this  flower 
if  you  want  to;  and,  come  Sunday,  I'll  get  you  another 
one  that  won't  be  broken." 

"Why  Sunday  ?"  asked  Stoddard. 

"Well,  I  wouldn't  have  time  to  go  after  them  till 
then,  and  the  ones  I  know  of  wouldn't  be  open  before 
Sunday.  I  saw  just  three  there  by  the  spring.  That's 
the  way  they  grow,  you  know  —  two  or  three  in  a  place, 
and  not  another  for  miles." 

"You  saw  them  growing?"  repeated  Stoddard.  "I 
should  like  to  see  one  on  its  roots,  and  maybe  make 
a  little  sketch  of  it.  Couldn't  you  just  as  well  show 
me  the  place  Sunday  ?" 

For  no  reason  that  she  could  assign,  and  very 
much  against  her  will,  Johnnie's  face  flushed  deeply. 


62    THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

"I  reckon  I  couldn't,"  she  answered  evasively. 
"  Hit's  a  long  ways  up  —  and  —  hit's  a  long  ways 
up." 

"And  yet  you're  going  to  walk  it  —  after  a  week's 
work  here  in  the  mill?"  persisted  Stoddard.  "You'd 
better  tell  me  where  they  grow,  and  let  me  go  up  in 
my  car." 

"I  wish't  I  could,"  said  Johnnie,  embarrassed. 
"  But  you'd  never  find  it  in  the  world.  They  isn't 
one  thing  that  I  could  tell  you  to  know  the  place  by: 
and  you  have  to  leave  the  road  and  walk  a  little  piece  - 
oh,  it's  no  use  —  and  I  don't  mind,  I'd  just  love  to 
go  up  there  and  get  the  flowers  for  you." 

"Are  you  the  new  girl?"  inquired  a  voice  at 
Johnnie's  shoulder. 

They  turned  to  find  a  squat,  middle-aged  man  regard 
ing  them  dubiously. 

"Yes,"  answered  Johnnie,  rising.  "I've  been  wait 
ing  quite  a  while." 

"Well,  come  this  way,"  directed  the  man  and, 
turning,  led  her  away.  Down  the  hall  they  went, 
then  up  a  flight  of  wooden  stairs  which  carried  them 
to  a  covered  bridge,  and  so  to  the  upper  story  of  the 
factory. 

"That's  an  unusual-looking  girl."  Old  Andrew 
MacPherson  made  the  comment  as  he  received  the 
papers  from  Stoddard's  hands. 

"The  one  I  was  speaking  to  in  the  hall  ?"  inquired 
Stoddard  rather  unnecessarily.  "Yes;  she  seems  to 
have  an  unusual  mind  as  well.  These  mountain 


THE  MOCCASIN  FLOWER  63 

people  are  peculiar.  They  appear  to  have  no 
idea  of  class,  and  therefore  are  in  a  measure  all 
aristocrats." 

"Well,  that  ought  to  square  with  your  socialistic 
notions,"  chaffed  MacPherson,  sorting  the  work  on 
his  desk  and  pushing  a  certain  portion  of  it  toward 
Stoddard.  "Sit  down  here,  if  you  please,  and  we'll  go 
over  these  now.  The  girl  looked  a  good  deal  like  a 
fairy  princess.  I  don't  think  she's  a  safe  topic  for 
susceptible  young  chaps  like  you  and  me,"  the  grizzled 
old  Scotchman  concluded  with  a  chuckle.  "Your 
socialistic  hullabaloo  makes  you  liable  to  foregather 
with  all  sorts  of  impossible  people." 

Gray  shook  his  head,  laughing,  as  he  seated  himself 
at  the  desk  beside  the  other. 

"Oh,  I'm  only  a  theoretical  socialist,"  he  depre 
cated. 

"Hum,"  grunted  the  older  man.  "A  theoretical 
socialist  always  seemed  to  me  about  like  a  theoretical 
pickpocket  —  neither  of  them  stands  to  do  much  harm. 
For  example,  here  you  are,  one  of  the  richest  young 
fellows  of  my  acquaintance,  living  along  very  con 
tentedly  where  every  tenet  you  profess  to  hold  is  daily 
outraged.  You're  not  giving  away  your  money.  You 
take  a  healthy  interest  in  a  good  car,  a  good  dinner, 
the  gals;  I'm  even  told  you  have  a  fad  for  old  porce 
lains  —  and  yet  you  call  yourself  a  socialist." 

"These  economic  conditions  are  not  a  pin,"  answered 
Gray,  smiling.  "I  don't  have  to  jump  and  say  'ouch!' 
the  minute  I  find  they  prick  me.  Worse  conditions 


64   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

have  always  been,  and  no  doubt  bad  ones  will  survive 
for  a  time,  and  pass  away  as  mankind  outgrows  them. 
I  haven't  the  colossal  conceit  to  suppose  that  I  can 
reform  the  world  —  not  even  push  it  much  faster 
toward  the  destination  of  good  to  which  it  is  rolling. 
But  I  want  to  know  —  I  want  to  understand,  myself; 
then  if  there  is  anything  for  me  to  do  I  shall  do  it. 
It  may  be  that  the  present  conditions  are  the  best 
possible  for  the  present  moment.  It  may  be  that  if 
a  lot  of  us  got  together  and  agreed,  we  could  better 
them  exceedingly.  It  is  not  certain  in  my  mind  yet 
that  any  growth  is  of  value  to  humanity  which  does  not 
proceed  from  within.  This  is  true  of  the  individual 
-  must  it  not  be  true  of  the  class  ?" 

"No  doubt,  no  doubt,"  agreed  MacPherson,  indif 
ferently.  "Most  of  the  men  who  are  loud  in  the 
leadership  of  socialism  have  made  a  failure  of  their 
own  lives.  We'll  see  what  happens  when  a  man  who 
is  a  personal  and  economic  success  sets  up  to  teach." 

"If  you  mean  that  very  complimentary  description 
for  me,"  said  Gray  with  sudden  seriousness,  "  I  will 
say  to  you  here  and  now  that  there  is  no  preacher  in 
me.  But  when  I  am  a  little  clearer  in  my  own  mind  as 
to  what  I  believe,  I  shall  practise.  The  only  real 
creed  is  a  manner  of  life.  If  you  don't  live  it,  you 
don't  really  believe  it." 


CHAPTER  VI 

WEAVERS   AND   WEFT 

THE  Hardwick  mill  was  a  large  one;  to  the 
mountain-bred  girl  it  seemed  endless,  while  its 
clamour  and  roar  was  a  thing  to  daunt.  They 
passed  through  the  spinning  department,  in  which  the 
long  lines  of  frames  were  tended  by  children,  and 
reached  the  weaving-rooms  whose  looms  required  the 
attention  of  women,  with  here  and  there  a  man  who 
had  failed  to  make  a  success  of  male  occupations  and 
sunk  to  the  ill-paid  feminine  activities.  In  a  corner 
of  one  of  these,  Johnnie's  guide  stopped  before  two 
silent,  motionless  looms,  and  threw  on  the  power. 
He  began  to  instruct  her  in  their  operation,  all 
communication  being  in  dumb  show;  for  the  clap 
ping  thunder  of  the  weaving-room  instantly  snatches 
the  sound  from  one's  lips  and  batters  it  into  shape- 
lessness.  Johnnie  had  been  an  expert  weaver  on 
the  ancient  foot-power  looms  of  the  mountains;  but 
the  strangeness  of  the  new  machine,  the  noise  and 
her  surroundings,  bewildered  her.  When  the  man 
saw  that  she  was  not  likely  to  injure  herself  or  the 
looms,  he  turned  away  with  a  careless  nod  and  left 
her  to  her  fate. 

It  was  a  blowy  April  day  outside,  with  a  gay  blue 


66    THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

sky  in  which  the  white  clouds  raced,  drawing  barges 
of  shadow  over  the  earth  below.  But  the  necessity 
of  keeping  dust  out  of  the  machinery,  the  inconvenience 
of  having  flying  ends  carried  toward  it,  closed  every 
window  in  the  big  factory,  and  the  operatives  gasped 
in  the  early  heat,  the  odour  of  oil,  the  exhausted  air. 
There  was  a  ventilating  system  in  the  Hardwick 
mill,  and  it  was  supposed  to  be  exceptionally  free  from 
lint;  but  the  fagged  children  crowded  to  the  casements 
with  instinctive  longing  for  the  outdoor  air  which  could 
not  of  course  enter  through  the  glass;  or  plodded  their 
monotonous  rounds  to  tend  the  frames  and  see  that  the 
thread  was  running  properly  to  each  spool,  and  that 
the  spools  were  removed,  when  filled. 

By  noon  every  nerve  in  Johnnie's  body  quivered 
with  excitement  and  overstrain;  yet  when  Mandy 
came  for  her  at  the  dinner  hour  she  showed  her  a  face 
still  resolute,  and  asked  that  a  snack  be  brought  her 
to  the  mill. 

"I  don't  see  why  you  won't  come  along  home  and 
eat  your  dinner,"  the  Meacham  woman  commented. 
"The  Lord  knows  you  get  time  enough  to  stay  in 
the  mill  working  over  them  old  looms.  Say,  I  seen 
you  in  the  hall  —  did  you  know  who  you  was  talk 
ing  to?" 

The  red  flooded  Johnnie's  face  as  she  knelt  before 
her  loom  interrogating  its  workings  with  a  dexterous 
hand;  even  the  white  nape  of  her  neck  showed  pink 
to  Mandy's  examining  eye;  but  she  managed  to  reply 
in  a  fairly  even  tone: 


WEAVERS   AND   WEFT  67 

"Yes,  that  was  Mr.  Stoddard.  I  saw  him  yesterday 
evening  when  I  was  coming  down  the  Ridge  with  Shade." 

"  But  did  you  know  'bout  him  ?  Say  —  Johnnie  Con- 
sadine — turn  yourself  round  from  that  old  loom  and 
answer  me.  I  was  goin'  a-past  the  door,  and  when  I 
ketched  sight  o'  you  and  him  settin'  there  talkin'  as  if 
you'd  knowed  each  other  all  your  lives,  why  you  could 
have  —  could  have  knocked  me  down  with  a  feather." 

Johnnie  sat  up  on  her  heels  and  turned  a  laughing 
face  across  her  shoulder. 

"I  don't  see  any  reason  to  want  to  knock  you  down 
with  anything,"  she  evaded  the  direct  issue.  "Go 
'long,  Mandy,  or  you  won't  have  time  to  eat  your 
dinner.  Tell  Aunt  Mavity  to  send  me  just  a  biscuit 
and  a  piece  of  meat." 

"Good  land,  Johnnie  Consadine,  but  you're  quare!" 
exclaimed  Mandy,  staring  with  bulging  light  eyes. 
"If  it  was  me  I'd  be  all  in  a  tremble  yet  —  and  there 
you  sit  and  talk  about  meat  and  bread!" 

Johnnie  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  explain  that 
the  tremor  of  that  conversation  with  Stoddard  had 
indeed  lasted  through  her  entire  morning. 

"There  was  nothing  to  tremble  about,"  she  remarked 
with  surface  calm.  "He'd  never  seen  a  pink  moc 
casin  flower,  and  I  gave  him  the  one  I  had  and  told 
him  where  it  grew." 

"Well,  he  wasn't  looking  at  no  moccasin  flower 
when  I  seed  him,"  Mandy  persisted.  "He  was  lookin' 
at  you.  He  jest  eyed  you  as  if  you  was  Miss  Lydia 
Sessions  herself  —  more  so,  if  anything." 


68    THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

Johnnie  inwardly  rebuked  the  throb  of  joy  which 
greeted  this  statement. 

"I  reckon  his  looks  are  his  own,  Mandy,"  she  said 
soberly.  "You  and  me  have  no  call  to  notice  them." 

"Ain't  got  no  call  to  notice  'em?  Well,  I  jest 
wish't  I  could  get  you  and  him  up  in  front  of  Miss 
Sessions,  and  have  her  see  them  looks  of  his'n," 
grumbled  Mandy  as  she  turned  away.  "I  bet  you 
there'd  be  some  noticin'  done  then!" 

When  in  the  evening  Mandy  came  for  Johnnie, 
she  found  the  new  mill  hand  white  about  the  mouth 
with  exhaustion,  heavy-eyed,  choking,  and  ready  to 
weep. 

"Uh-huh,"  said  the  Meacham  woman,  "I  know 
just  how  you  feel.  They  all  look  that-a-way  the  first 
day  or  two  —  then  after  that  they  look  worse." 

Nervelessly  Johnnie  found  her  way  downstairs  in 
the  stream  of  tired  girls  and  women.  There  was 
more  than  one  kindly  greeting  for  the  new  hand,  and 
occasionally  somebody  clapped  her  on  the  shoulder 
and  assured  her  that  a  few  days  more  would  get  her 
used  to  the  work.  The  mill  yard  was  large,  filled 
with  grass-plots  and  gravel  walks;  but  it  was  shut 
in  by  a  boarding  so  tall  that  the  street  could  not  be 
seen  from  the  windows  of  the  lower  floor.  To  Johnnie, 
weary  to  the  point  where  aching  muscles  and  blood 
charged  with  uneliminated  waste  spelled  pessimism, 
that  high  board  fence  seemed  to  make  of  the  pretty 
place  a  prison  yard. 

A  man  was  propping  open  the  big  wooden  gates,  and 


WEAVERS   AND  WEFT  69 

through  them  she  saw  the  street,  the  sidewalk,  and  a 
carriage  drawn  up  at  the  curb.  In  this  vehicle  sat  a 
lady;  and  a  gentleman,  hat  in  hand,  talked  to  her  from 
the  sidewalk. 

"Come  on,"  hissed  Mandy,  seizing  her  companion's 
arm  and  dragging  her  forward.  "Thar's  Miss  Lydia 
Sessions  right  now,  and  that's  Mr.  Stoddard  a-talkin' 
to  her.  I'll  go  straight  up  and  give  you  a  knock 
down  —  I  want  to,  anyway.  She's  the  one  that  runs 
the  Uplift  Club.  If  she  takes  a  shine  to  you  it'll  be 
money  in  your  pocket." 

She  turned  over  her  shoulder  to  glance  at  Johnnie, 
who  was  pulling  vigorously  back.  There  was  no 
hint  of  tiredness  or  depression  in  the  girl's  face  now. 
Her  deep  eyes  glowed;  red  was  again  in  the  fresh  lips 
that  parted  over  the  white  teeth  in  an  adorable,  tremu 
lous  smile.  Mandy  stared. 

"  Hurry  up  —  he'll  be  gittin'  away,"  she  admon 
ished. 

"Oh,  no,"  objected  the  new  girl.  "Wait  till  some 
other  time.  I  —  I  don't  want  to  — 

But  her  remonstrance  came  too  late;  Mandy  had 
yanked  her  forward  and  was  performing  the  intro 
duction  she  so  euphoniously  described. 

Gray  Stoddard  turned  and  bowed  to  both  girls. 
He  carried  the  broken  orchid  in  his  hand,  and  appar 
ently  had  been  speaking  of  it  to  Miss  Sessions.  Mandy 
eyed  him  narrowly  to  see  if  any  of  the  looks  she  had 
apprehended  as  offensive  to  Miss  Sessions  went  in 
Johnnie's  direction.  And  she  was  not  disappointed. 


;o    THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

Stoddard's  gaze  lingered  long  on  the  radiant  counte 
nance  of  the  girl  from  Unaka.  Not  so  the  young  women 
looked  after  a  few  months  of  factory  life.  He  was 
getting  to  know  well  the  odd  jail-bleach  the  cotton 
mill  puts  on  country  cheeks,  the  curious,  dulled,  yet 
resentful  expression  of  the  eyes,  begotten  by  continuous 
repetition  of  excessive  hours  of  trivial,  monotonous 
toil.  Would  this  girl  come  at  last  to  that  favour  ? 
He  was  a  little  surprised  at  the  strength  of  protest  in 
his  own  heart.  Then  MacPherson,  coming  down  the 
office  steps,  called  to  him;  and,  with  courteous  adieux, 
the  two  men  departed  in  company. 

Johnnie  was  a  bit  grieved  to  find  that  the  re 
moval  from  Miss  Sessions  of  the  shrouding,  misty 
veil  revealed  a  countenance  somewhat  angular  in  out 
line,  with  cheekbones  a  trifle  hard  and  high,  and  a 
lack  of  colour.  She  fancied,  too,  that  Miss  Sessions 
was  slightly  annoyed  about  something.  She  wondered 
if  it  was  because  they  had  interrupted  her  conversation 
with  Mr.  Stoddard  and  driven  him  away.  Yet  while 
she  so  questioned,  she  was  taking  in  with  swift  appre 
ciation  the  trim  set  of  the  driving  coat  Miss  Lydia 
wore,  the  appropriate  texture  of  the  heavy  gloves  on 
the  small  hands  that  held  the  lines,  and  a  certain  inde 
finable  air  of  elegance  hard  to  put  into  words,  but 
which  all  women  recognize. 

"Ain't  she  swell?"  inquired  Mandy,  as  they  passed 
on.  "She's  after  Mr.  Stoddard  now  —  it  used  to  be 
the  preacher  that  had  the  big  church  in  Watauga, 
but  he  moved  away.  I  wish  I  had  her  clothes.'* 


WEAVERS   AND  WEFT  71 

"Yes,"  returned  Johnnie  absently.  She  had  already 
forgotten  her  impression  of  Miss  Sessions's  displeasure. 
Gone  was  the  leaden  weariness  of  her  day's  toil.  Some 
thing  intimate  and  kind  in  the  glance  Stoddard  had 
given  her  remained  warm  at  her  heart,  and  set  that 
heart  singing. 

Meantime,  Stoddard  and  MacPherson  were  walking 
up  the  ridge  toward  the  Country  Club  together,  intend 
ing  to  spend  the  night  on  the  highlands.  The  Scotch 
man  returned  once  more  to  the  subject  he  had  broached 
that  morning. 

"This  is  a  great  country,"  he  opened  obliquely, 
"a  very  great  country.  But  you  Americans  will  have 
to  learn  that  generations  of  blood  and  breeding  are  not 
to  be  skipped  with  impunity.  See  the  sons  and  daugh 
ters  of  your  rich  men.  If  the  hope  of  the  land  lay  in 
them  it  would  be  a  bad  outlook  indeed." 

"Is  that  peculiar  to  America?"  asked  Stoddard 
mildly.  They  were  coming  under  the  trees  now. 
He  took  off  his  hat  and  ran  his  fingers  through  his  hair 
to  enjoy  the  coolness.  "My  impression  was  that  the 
youthful  aristocracy  of  every  country  often  made  of 
itself  a  spectacle  unseemly." 

The  Scotchman  laughed.  Then  he  looked  sidewise 
at  his  companion.  "I'm  not  denying,"  he  pursued, 
again  with  that  odd  trick  of  entering  his  argument 
from  the  side,  "that  a  young  chap  like  yourself  has 
my  good  word.  A  man  with  money  who  will  go  to 
work  to  find  out  how  that  money  was  made,  and  to 
live  as  his  father  did,  carries  an  old  head  on  young 


72    THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

shoulders.  I  put  aside  your  socialistic  vapourings 
of  course  —  every  fellow  to  his  fad  —  I  see  in  you  the 
makings  of  a  canny  business  man." 

It  was  Stoddard's  turn  to  laugh,  and  he  did  so 
unrestrainedly,  throwing  back  his  head  and  uttering 
his  mirth  so  boyishly  that  the  other  smiled  in  sympathy. 

"You  talk  about  what's  in  the  blood,"  Gray  said 
finally,  "and  then  you  make  light  of   my    socialistic 
vapourings,  as  you  call  them.     My  mother's  clan  - 
and  it  is  from  the  spindle  side  that  a  man  gets  his  traits 

-  are  all  come-outers  as  far  back  as  I  know  anything 
about    them.     They    fought    with    Cromwell  —  some 
of  them;    they  came  over  and  robbed  the  Indians  in 
true     sanctimonious     fashion,     and     persecuted     the 
Quakers;   and  down  the  line  a  bit  I   get  some  Quaker 
blood  that  stood  for  its  beliefs  in  the  stocks,  and  sac 
rificed  its  ears  for  what  it  thought  right.      I'm  afraid 
the  socialistic  vapourings   are  the  true   expression  of 
the  animal." 

MacPherson  grunted  incredulously. 

"I  give  you  ten  years  to  be  done  with  it,"  he  said. 
"It  is  a  disease  of  youth.  But  don't  let  it  mark  your 
affairs.  It  is  all  right  to  foregather  with  these  work- 
ingmen,  and  find  out  about  their  trades-unions  and 
that  sort  of  thing  —  such  knowledge  will  be  useful 
to  you  in  your  business.  But  when  it  comes  to  women  " 

-  MacPherson   paused   and   shook  his  gray   head  - 
"to  young,  pretty  women  —  a  man  must  stick  to  his 
own  class." 

"You  mean  the  girl  in  the  corridor,"  said  Stoddard 


WEAVERS  AND  WEFT  73 

with  that  directness  which  his  friends  were  apt  to  find 
disconcerting.  "I  haven't  classified  her  yet.  She's 
rather  an  extraordinary  specimen." 

"Well,  she's  not  in  your  class,  and  best  leave  her 
alone,"  returned  MacPherson  doggedly.  "It  wouldn't 
matter  if  the  young  thing  were  not  so  beautiful,  and 
with  such  a  winning  look  in  her  eyes.  This  America 
beats  me.  That  poor  lass  would  make  a  model  prin 
cess  —  according  to  common  ideals  of  royalty  —  and 
here  you  find  her  coming  out  of  some  hut  in  the  moun 
tains  and  going  to  work  in  a  factory.  Miss  Lydia  Ses 
sions  is  a  well-bred  young  woman,  now;  she's  been  all 
over  Europe,  and  profited  by  her  advantages  of  travel. 
I  call  her  an  exceedingly  well-bred  person." 

"She  is,"  agreed  Stoddard  without  enthusiasm. 

"And  I'm  sure  you  must  admire  her  altruistic  ideas 
-  they'd  just  fall  in  with  yours,  I  suppose,  now." 

Stoddard  shook  his  head. 

"Not  at  all,"  he  said  briefly.  "If  you  were  enough 
interested  in  socialism  to  know  what  we  folks  are  driv 
ing  at,  I  could  explain  to  you  why  we  object  to  chari 
table  enterprises  —  but  it's  not  worth  while." 

"Indeed  it  is  not,"  assented  MacPherson  hastily. 
"Though  no  doubt  we  might  have  a  fine  argument 
over  it  some  evening  when  we  have  nothing  better  to 
talk  about.  I  thought  you  and  Miss  Sessions  were 
fixing  up  a  match  of  it,  and  it  struck  me  as  a  very 
good  thing,  too.  The  holdings  of  both  of  you  are  in 
cotton-mill  property,  I  judge.  That  always  makes 
for  harmony  and  stability  in  a  matrimonial  alliance." 


74    THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

Stoddard  smiled.  He  was  aware  that  Miss  Lydia's 
holdings  consisted  of  a  complaisant  brother-in-law  in 
whose  house  she  was  welcome  till  she  could  marry. 
But  he  said  nothing  on  this  head. 

"  MacPherson,"  he  began  very  seriously,  "  I  wonder 
a  little  at  you,  I  know  you  old-world  people  regard 
these  things  differently;  but  could  you  look  at  Mrs. 
Hardwick's  children,  and  seriously  recommend  Mrs. 
Hardwick's  sister  as  a  wife  for  a  friend  ?" 

Old  MacPherson  stopped  in  the  way,  thrust  his 
hands  deep  in  his  pockets  and  stared  at  the  younger 
man. 

"Well!"  he  ejaculated  at  last;  "that's  a  great  speech 
for  a  hot-headed  young  fellow!  Your  foresight  is 
worthy  of  a  Scotchman." 

Gray  Stoddard  smiled.  "I  am  not  a  hot-headed 
person,"  he  observed.  "Nobody  but  you  ever  accused 
me  of  such  a  thing.  Marriage  concerns  the  race  and 
a  man's  whole  future.  If  the  children  of  the  mar 
riage  are  likely  to  be  unsatisfactory,  the  marriage  will 
certainly  be  so.  We  moderns  bedeck  and  bedrape 
us  in  all  sorts  of  meretricious  togas,  till  a  pair  of  fine 
eyes  and  a  dashing  manner  pass  for  beauty;  but  when 
life  tries  the  metal  —  when  nature  applies  her  inevitable 
test  —  the  degenerate  or  neurotic  type  goes  to  the  wall." 

Again  MacPherson  grunted.  "No  doubt  you're 
sound  enough;  but  it  is  rather  uncanny  to  hear  a  young 
fellow  talk  like  his  grandfather,"  the  Scotchman  said 
finally.  "Are  there  many  of  your  sort  in  this  aston 
ishing  land  ?" 


WEAVERS  AND  WEFT  75 

"A  good  many,"  Stoddard  told  him.  "The  modern 
young  man  of  education  and  wealth  is  doing  one  of 
two  things  —  burning  up  his  money  and  going  to  the 
dogs  as  fast  as  he  can;  or  putting  in  a  power  of  thinking, 
and  trying,  while  he  saves  his  own  soul,  to  do  his  part 
in  the  regeneration  of  the  world." 

"Yes.  Well,  it's  a  big  job.  It's  been  on  hand  a 
long  time.  The  young  men  of  America  have  their 
work  cut  out  for  them,"  said  MacPherson  drily. 

"No  doubt,"  returned  Stoddard  with  undisturbed 
cheerfulness.  "  But  when  every  man  saves  his  own 
soul,  the  salvation  of  the  world  will  come  to  pass." 


CHAPTER  VII 

ABOVE   THE    VALLEY 

ALL  week  in  Johnnie  the  white  flame  of  purpose 
burned  out  every  consciousness  of  weari 
ness,  of  bodily  or  mental  distaste.  The  pre 
posterously  long  hours,  the  ill-ventilated  rooms,  the 
savage  monotony  of  her  toil,  none  of  these  reached 
the  girl  through  the  glow  of  hope  and  ambition.  Phys 
ically,  the  finger  of  the  factory  was  already  laid  upon 
her  vigorous  young  frame;  but  when  Sunday  morning 
came,  though  there  was  no  bellowing  whistle  to  break 
in  on  her  slumbers,  she  waked  early,  and  while  nerve 
and  muscle  begged  achingly  for  more  sleep,  she  rose 
with  a  sense  of  exhilaration  which  nothing  could 
dampen.  She  had  seen  a  small  mountain  church 
over  the  Ridge  by  the  spring  where  her  moccasin  flowers 
grew;  and  if  there  were  preaching  in  it  to-day,  the  boys 
and  girls  scouring  the  surrounding  woods  during  the 
intermissions  would  surely  find  and  carry  away  the 
orchids.  There  was  no  safety  but  to  take  the  road  early. 
The  room  was  dark.  Mandy  slept  noisily  beside 
her.  All  the  beds  were  full,  because  the  night-turn 
workers  were  in.  She  meant  to  be  very  careful  to 
waken  nobody.  Poor  souls,  they  needed  this  one  day 
of  rest  when  they  could  all  lie  late.  Searching  for 
something,  she  cautiously  struck  a  match,  and  in 

76 


ABOVE  THE  VALLEY  77 

the  flaring  up  of  its  small  flame  got  a  glimpse  of 
Mandy's  face,  open-mouthed,  pallid,  unbeautiful, 
against  the  tumbled  pillow.  A  great  rush  of  pity  filled 
her  eyes  with  tears,  but  then  she  was  in  a  mood  to 
compassionate  any  creature  who  had  not  the  prospect 
of  a  twelve-mile  walk  to  get  a  flower  for  Gray  Stoddard. 

It  was  in  that  black  hour  before  dawn  that  Johnnie 
let  herself  out  the  front  door,  finding  the  direction  by 
instinct  rather  than  any  assistance  from  sight,  since 
fences,  trees,  houses,  were  but  vague  blots  of  deeper 
shadow  in  the  black.  She  was  well  on  her  way  before 
a  light  here  and  there  in  a  cabin  window  showed  that, 
Sunday  morning  as  it  was,  the  earliest  risers  were  begin 
ning  to  stir.  Her  face  was  set  to  the  east,  and  after 
a  time  a  pallid  line  showed  itself  above  the  great  bulk 
of  mountains  which  in  this  quarter  backed  up  the 
ramparts  of  the  circling  ridges  about  Watauga.  The 
furthest  line  was  big  Unaka,  but  this  passionate  lover 
of  her  native  highlands  gave  it  neither  thought  nor 
glance,  as  she  tramped  steadily  with  lifted  face,  fol 
lowing  unconsciously  the  beckoning  finger  of  Fate. 

It  was  a  dripping-sweet  spring  morning,  dew- 
drenched,  and  with  the  air  so  full  of  moisture  that  it 
gathered  and  pattered  from  the  scant  leafage.  She 
was  two  miles  up,  swinging  along  at  that  steady  pace 
her  mountain-bred  youth  had  given  her,  when  the 
sky  began  to  flush  faintly,  and  the  first  hint  of  dawn 
rested  on  her  upraised  countenance. 

Rain-laden  mists  swept  down  upon  her  from  the 
heights,  and  she  walked  through  them  unnoting;  the 


78    THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

pale  light  from  the  eastern  sky  shone  on  an  aspect 
introverted,  rapt  away  from  knowledge  of  its  sur 
roundings.  She  was  going  to  get  something  for  him. 
She  had  promised  him  the  flowers,  and  he  would  be 
pleased  with  them.  He  would  smile  when  he  thanked 
her  for  them,  and  look  at  her  as  he  had  when  she  gave 
him  the  broken  blossom.  A  look  like  that  was  to 
the  girl  in  her  present  mood  as  the  sword's  touch  on 
the  shoulder  of  the  lad  who  is  being  knighted  by  his 
king  —  it  made  her  want  to  rise  up  and  be  all  that 
such  a  man  could  ever  demand  of  her.  Twelve  miles 
of  walking  after  a  week's  toil  in  the  mill  was  a  very 
small  offering  to  put  before  so  worshipful  a  divinity. 
She  sought  vaguely  to  conjecture  just  what  his  words 
would  be  when  next  they  spoke  together.  Her  lips 
formed  themselves  into  tender,  reminiscent  half- 
smiles  as  she  went  over  the  few  and  brief  moments 
of  her  three  interviews  with  Stoddard. 

Johnnie  was  not  inexperienced  in  matters  of  the 
heart.  Mating  time  comes  early  in  the  mountains. 
Had  her  dreams  been  of  Shade  Buckheath,  or  any  of 
the  boys  of  her  own  kind  and  class,  she  would  have 
been  instantly  full  of  self-consciousness;  but  Gray 
Stoddard  appeared  to  her  a  creature  so  apart  from 
her  sphere  that  this  overwhelming  attraction  he  held 
for  her  seemed  no  more  than  the  admiration  she  might 
have  given  to  Miss  Lydia  Sessions.  And  so  the  dream 
lay  undisturbed  under  her  eyelashes,  and  she  breasted 
the  slope  of  the  big  mountain  with  a  buoyant  step, 
oblivious  of  fatigue. 


ABOVE  THE  VALLEY  79 

She  reached  the  little  wayside  spring  before  even 
the  early-rising  mountain  folk  were  abroad,  found  three 
pink  blossoms  in  full  perfection,  plucked  them  and 
wrapped  them  carefully  in  damp  cloths  disposed  in 
a  little  hickory  basket  that  Uncle  Pros  had  made  for 
her  years  ago.  It  was  a  tiny  thing,  designed  to  hold 
a  child's  play-pretties  or  a  young  girl's  sewing,  but 
shaped  and  fashioned  after  the  manner  of  mountain 
baskets,  and  woven  of  stout  white  hickory  withes  shaved 
down  to  daintier  size  and  pliancy  by  the  old  man's  jack- 
knife.  Life  was  very  sweet  to  Johnnie  Consadine  as  she 
straightened  up,  basket  in  hand,  and  turned  toward 
the  home  journey. 

It  was  nearly  nine  o'clock  when  she  reached  the 
gap  above  Cottonville.  She  was  singing  a  little,  softly, 
to  herself,  as  she  footed  it  down  the  road,  and  wishing 
that  she  might  see  Gray's  face  when  he  got  her  flow 
ers.  She  planned  to  put  them  in  a  glass  on  his  desk 
Monday  morning,  and  of  course  she  would  be  at  her 
loom  long  before  he  should  reach  the  office.  She  was 
glad  they  were  such  fine  specimens  —  all  perfect. 
Lovingly  she  pulled  aside  the  wet  cloth  and  looked 
in  at  them.  She  began  to  meet  people  on  the  road, 
and  the  cabins  she  passed  were  open  and  thronged 
with  morning  life.  The  next  turn  in  the  road  would 
bring  her  to  the  spring  where  she  had  rested  that  eve 
ning  just  a  week  ago,  and  where  Shade  had  met  her. 

Suddenly,  she  caught  the  sheen  of  something  down 
the  road  between  the  scant  greenery.  It  was  a  carnage 
or  an  automobile.  Now,  it  was  more  likely  to  be 


8o    THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

the  former  than  the  latter;  also,  there  were  a  half- 
dozen  cars  in  Cottonville;  yet  from  the  first  she  knew, 
and  was  prepared  for  it  when  the  shining  vehicle 
came  nearer  and  showed  her  Gray  Stoddard  driving 
it.  They  looked  at  each  other  in  silence.  Stoddard 
brought  the  machine  to  a  halt  beside  her.  She  came 
mutely  forward,  a  hesitating  hand  at  her  basket  cover 
ing,  her  eyes  raised  to  his.  With  the  mountaineer's 
deathless  instinct  for  greeting,  she  was  first  to  speak. 

"Howdy,"  she  breathed  softly.  "I — I  was  look 
ing  for  —  I  got  you  - 

She  fell  silent  again,  still  regarding  him,  and  fumbling 
blindly  at  the  cover  of  the  basket. 

"Well  —  aren't  you  lost?"  inquired  Stoddard  with 
a  rather  futile  assumption  of  surprise.  He  was 
strangely  moved  by  the  direct  gaze  of  those  clear, 
wide-set  gray  eyes,  under  the  white  brow  and  the 
ruffled  coronet  of  bright  hair. 

"No,"  returned  Johnnie  gently,  literally.  "You 
know  I  said  I'd  come  up  here  and  get  those  moccasin 
flowers  for  you  this  morning.  This  is  my  road  home, 
anyhow.  I'm  not  as  near  lost  on  it  as  I  am  at  a  loom, 
down  in  the  factory." 

Stoddard  continued  to  stare  at  the  hand  she  had 
laid  on  the  car. 

"It'll  be  an  awfully  long  walk  for  you,"  he  said 
at  last,  choosing  his  words  with  some  difficulty.  "  Won't 
you  get  in  and  let  me  take  you  up  to  the  spring  ? " 

Johnnie  laughed  softly,  exultantly. 

"Oh,  I  picked  your  flowers  before  day  broke.     I'll 


ABOVE  THE  VALLEY  81 

bet  there  have  been  a  dozen  boys  over  from  Sunday- 
school  to  drink  out  of  that  spring  before  this  time. 
You  wouldn't  have  had  any  blooms  if  I  hadn't  got 
up  early." 

Again  she  laughed,  and,  uncovering  the  orchids, 
held  them  up  to  him. 

"These  are  beauties,"  he  exclaimed  with  due  enthu 
siasm,  yet  with  a  certain  uneasy  preoccupation  in  his 
manner.  "Were  you  up  before  day,  did  you  tell  me, 
to  get  these  ?  That  seems  too  bad.  You  needed 
your  sleep." 

Johnnie  flushed  and  smiled. 

"I  love  to  do  it,"  she  said  simply.  "It  was  mighty 
sweet  out  on  the  road  this  morning,  and  you  don't 
know  how  pretty  the  blooms  did  look,  standing  there 
waiting  for  me.  I  'most  hated  to  pick  them." 

Stoddard's  troubled  eyes  raised  themselves  to  her 
face.  Here  was  a  royal  nature  that  would  always 
be  in  the  attitude  of  the  giver.  He  wanted  to  offer  her 
something,  and,  as  the  nearest  thing  in  reach,  sprang 
down  from  the  automobile  and,  laying  a  hand  on  her 
arm,  said,  almost  brusquely: 

"Get  in.  Come,  let  me  help  you.  I  want  to  go 
up  and  see  the  spring  where  these  grow.  I'll  get  you 
back  to  Cottonville  in  time  for  church,  if  that's  what 
you're  debating  about." 

Both  of  them  knew  that  Johnnie's  reluctance  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  question  of  church-time.  Stod- 
dard  himself  was  well  aware  that  a  factory  girl  could 
not  with  propriety  accept  a  seat  in  his  car;  yet  when 


82    THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

once  they  were  settled  side  by  side,  and  the  car  resumed 
that  swift,  tireless  climb  which  is  the  wonder  and 
delight  of  the  mechanical  vehicle,  it  was  character 
istic  that  both  put  aside  definitely  and  completely 
all  hesitations  and  doubts.  The  girl  was  freely,  inno 
cently,  exultantly  blissful.  Stoddard  noticed  her  intent 
examination  of  the  machine,  and  began  explaining 
its  workings  to  her. 

"Was  that  what  you  were  doing,"  she  asked, 
alluding  to  some  small  item  of  the  operating,  "when 
you  stopped  by  the  side  of  the  road,  Sunday  night, 
when  Miss  Lydia  was  with  you  ?" 

He  looked  his  astonishment. 

"You  were  right  under  my  window  when  you 
stopped,"  Johnnie  explained  to  him.  "I  watched 
you-all  when  you  started  away.  I  was  sure  you  would 
beat." 

"We  did,"  Stoddard  assured  her.  "But  we  came 
near  missing  it.  That  connection  Buckheath  put  in 
for  me  the  evening  you  were  with  him  on  the  Ridge 
worked  loose.  But  I  discovered  the  trouble  in  time 
to  fix  it." 

Remembrance  of  that  evening,  and  of  the  swift 
flight  of  the  motors  through  the  dusk  moonlight,  made 
Johnnie  wonder  at  herself  and  her  present  position. 
She  was  roused  by  Stoddard's  voice  asking: 

"Are  you  interested  in  machinery?" 

"I  love  it,"  returned  Johnnie  sincerely.  "I  never 
did  get  enough  of  tinkerin'  around  machines.  If  I 
was  ever  so  fortunate  as  to  own  a  sewing  machine 


ABOVE  THE  VALLEY  83 

I  could  take  it  all  apart  and  clean  it  and  put  it  together 
again.  I  did  that  to  the  minister's  wife's  sewing 
machine  down  at  Bledsoe  when  it  got  out  of  order. 
She  said  I  knew  more  about  it  than  the  man  that  sold 
it  to  her." 

"Would  you  like  to  run  the  car?"  came  the  next 
query. 

Would  she  like  to!  The  countenance  of  simple 
rapture  that  she  turned  to  him  was  reply  sufficient. 

"Well,  look  at  my  hands  here  on  the  steering-wheel. 
Get  the  position,  and  when  I  raise  one  put  yours  in 
its  place.  There.  No,  a  little  more  this  way.  Now 
you  can  hold  it  better.  The  other  one's  right." 

Smilingly  he  watched  her,  like  a  grown  person 
amusing  a  child. 

"You  see  what  the  wheel  does,  of  course  — guides. 
Now,"  when  they  had  run  ahead  for  some  minutes, 
"do  you  want  to  go  faster  ?" 

Johnnie  laughed  up  at  him,  through  thick,  fair 
lashes. 

"Looks  like  anybody  would  be  hard  to  suit  that 
wanted  to  go  faster  than  this,"  she  apologized.  "But 
if  the  machine  can  make  a  higher  speed,  there  wouldn't 
be  any  harm  in  just  running  that  way  for  a  spell,  would 
there?" 

It  was  Stoddard's  turn  to  laugh. 

"No  manner  of  harm,"  he  agreed  readily.  "Well, 
you  advance  your  spark  and  open  the  throttle  —  that 
speeds  her  up.  This  is  the  spark  and  this  the  gas, 
here.  Then  you  shove  your  shifting  lever  —  see, 


84    THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

here  it  is  —  over  to  the  next  speed.  Remember  that, 
any  time  you  shift  the  gears,  you'll  have  to  pull  the 
clutch.  The  machine  has  to  gain  headway  on  one 
speed  before  it  can  take  the  next." 

Johnnie  nodded  soberly.  Her  intent  gaze  studied 
the  mechanism  before  her  intelligently. 

"We're  going   a   heap   faster   now,"   she   suggested 
in  a  moment.     "Can  I  move  that  —  whatever  it  is  - 
over  to  the  third  speed  ?" 

"Yes,"  agreed  Stoddard.  "Here's  a  good,  long, 
straight  stretch  of  road  for  us  to  take  it  on.  I'll  attend 
to  the  horn  when  we  come  to  the  turn  up  there.  We 
mustn't  make  anybody's  horse  run  away." 

So  the  lesson  proceeded.  He  showed  her  brake 
and  clutch.  He  gave  her  some  theoretical  knowledge 
of  cranking  up,  because  she  seemed  to  enjoy  it  as  a 
child  enjoys  exploiting  the  possibilities  of  a  new  toy. 

Up  and  up  they  went,  the  sky  widening  and  bright 
ening  above  them.  Hens  began  to  lead  forth  their 
broods.  Overhead,  a  hawk  wheeled  high  in  the  blue, 
uttering  his  querulous  cry. 

"I'm  mighty  glad  I  came,"  the  girl  said,  more  to 
herself  than  to  the  man  at  her  side.  "This  is  the 
most  like  flying  of  anything  that  ever  chanced  to  me." 

From  time  to  time  Stoddard  had  sent  swift,  sidelong 
glances  at  his  companion,  noting  the  bright,  bent  head, 
the  purity  of  line  in  the  profile  above  the  steering- 
wheel,  the  intelligent  beauty  of  the  intent,  down- 
dropped  eyes,  with  long  lashes  almost  on  the  flushed 
cheeks.  He  wondered  at  her;  born  amid  these  wide, 


ABOVE  THE  VALLEY  85 

cool  spaces,  how  had  she  endured  for  a  week  the  fetid 
atmosphere  of  the  factory  rooms  ?  How,  having 
tested  it,  could  she  look  forward  to  a  life  like  that  ? 
Something  in  her  innocent  trust  choked  him.  He 
began  some  carefully  worded  inquiries  as  to  her  expe 
rience  in  the  mill  and  her  opinion  of  the  work.  The 
answers  partook  of  that  charm  which  always  clung 
about  Johnnie.  She  told  him  of  Mandy  and,  missing 
no  shade  of  the  humour  there  was  in  the  Meacham 
girl,  managed  to  make  the  description  pathetic.  She 
described  Pap  Himes  and  his  boarding-house,  aptly, 
deftly,  and  left  it  funny,  though  a  sympathetic  listener 
could  feel  the  tragedy  beneath. 

Presently  they  met  the  first  farm-wagon  with  its  load 
of  worshippers  for  the  little  mountain  church  beyond. 
As  these  came  out  of  a  small  side  road,  and  caught 
sight  of  the  car,  the  bony  old  horses  jibbed  and  shied, 
and  took  all  the  driver's  skill  and  a  large  portion  of 
his  vocabulary  to  carry  them  safely  past,  the  children 
staring,  the  wTomen  pulling  their  sunbonnets  about 
their  faces  and  looking  down.  Something  in  the  sight 
brought  home  to  Johnnie  the  incongruity  of  her  present 
position.  On  the  instant,  a  drop  of  rain  splashed 
upon  the  back  of  her  hand. 

"There!"  she  cried  in  a  contrite  voice.  "I  knew 
mighty  well  and  good  that  it  was  going  to  rain,  and  I 
ought  to  have  named  it  to  you,  because  you  town  folks 
don't  understand  the  weather  as  well  as  we  do.  I 
ought  not  to  have  let  you  come  on  up  here." 

"  We'll  have  to  turn  and  run  for  it,"  said  Stoddard, 


86    THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

laughing  a  little.  "I  wish  I'd  had  the  hood  put  on 
this  morning,"  as  he  surveyed  the  narrow  way  in 
which  he  had  to  turn.  "Is  it  wider  beyond  here, 
do  you  remember  ?" 

"There's  a  bluff  up  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  that 
you  could  run  under  and  be  as  dry  as  if  you  were  in 
the  shed  at  home,"  said  Johnnie.  "This  won't  last 
long.  Do  you  want  to  try  it  ?" 

"You  are  the  pilot,"  Stoddard  declared  promptly, 
resigning  the  wheel  once  more  to  her  hands.  "If  it's 
a  bad  place,  you  might  let  me  take  the  car  in." 

Rain  in  the  mountains  has  a  trick  of  coming  with 
the  suddenness  of  an  overturned  bucket.  Johnnie 
sent  the  car  ahead  at  what  she  considered  a  rapid  pace, 
till  Stoddard  unceremoniously  took  the  wheel  from 
her  and  shoved  the  speed  clutch  over  to  the  third 
speed. 

"I'm  mighty  sorry  I  was  so  careless  and  didn't 
warn  you  about  the  rain,"  she  declared  with  shining 
eyes,  as  her  hair  blew  back  and  her  colour  rose  at  the 
rapid  motion.  "  But  this  is  fine.  I  believe  that  if  I 
should  ever  be  so  fortunate  as  to  own  an  automobile 
I'd  want  to  fly  like  this  every  minute  of  the  time  I 
was  in  it." 

As  she  spoke,  they  swept  beneath  the  overhanging 
rocks,  and  a  great  curtain  of  Virginia  creeper  and 
trumpet-vine  fell  behind  them,  half  screening  them 
from  the  road,  and  from  the  deluge  which  now  broke 
more  fiercely.  For  five  minutes  the  world  was  blotted 
out  in  rain,  with  these  two  watching  its  gray  swirls 


ABOVE   THE  VALLEY  87 

and  listening  to  its  insistent  drumming,  safe  and  dry 
in  their  cave. 

Nothing  ripens  intimacy  so  rapidly  as  a  common 
mishap.  Also,  two  people  seem  much  to  each  other 
as  they  await  alone  the  ceasing  of  the  rain  or  the  com 
ing  of  the  delayed  boat. 

"This  won't  last  long,"  Johnnie  repeated.  "We 
won't  dare  to  start  out  when  it  first  stops;  but  there'll 
come  a  little  clearing-up  shower  after  that,  and  then 
I  think  we'll  have  a  fair  day.  Don't  you  know  the 
saying,  'Rain  before  seven,  quit  before  eleven  ?'  Well, 
it  showered  twice  just  as  day  was  breaking,  and  I 
had  to  wait  under  a  tree  till  it  was  over." 

The  big  drops  lengthened  themselves,  as  they  came 
down,  into  tiny  javelins  and  struck  upon  the  rocks 
with  a  splash.  The  roar  and  drumming  in  the  forest 
made  a  soft,  blurring  undertone  of  sound.  The  first  rain 
lasted  longer  than  Johnnie  had  counted  on,  and  the 
clearing-up  shower  was  slow  in  making  its  appearance. 
The  two  talked  with  ever-growing  interest.  Strangely 
enough  Johnnie  Consadine,  who  had  no  knowledge  of 
any  other  life  except  through  a  few  well-conned  books, 
appreciated  the  values  of  this  mountain  existence  with 
almost  the  detached  view  of  an  outsider.  Her  knowl 
edge  of  it  was  therefore  more  assorted  and  available, 
and  Stoddard  listened  to  her  eagerly. 

"But  what  made  you  think  you'd  like  to  work  in  a 
cotton  mill?"  he  asked  suddenly.  "After  all,  weren't 
you  maybe  better  off  up  in  these  mountains  ?" 

And  then  and  there  Johnnie  strove  to  put  into  exact 


88    THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

and  intelligent  words  what  she  had  possessed  and 
what  she  had  lacked  in  the  home  of  her  childhood. 
Unconsciously  she  told  him  more  than  was  in  the  mere 
words.  He  got  the  situation  as  to  the  visionary,  kindly 
father  with  a  turn  for  book  learning  and  a  liking  for 
enterprises  that  appealed  to  his  imagination.  Uncle 
Pros  and  the  silver  mine  were  always  touched  upon  with 
the  tender  kindness  Johnnie  felt  for  the  old  man  and 
his  life-long  quest.  But  the  little  mother  and  the 
children  —  ah,  it  was  here  that  the  listener  found 
Johnnie's  incentive. 

"Mr.  Stoddard,"  she  concluded,  "there  wasn't 
a  bit  of  hope  of  schooling  for  the  children  unless  I 
could  get  out  and  work  in  the  factory.  I  think  it's 
a  splendid  chance  for  a  girl.  I  think  any  girl  that 
wouldn't  take  such  a  chance  would  be  mighty  mean 
and  poor-spirited." 

Gray  Stoddard  revolved  this  conception  of  a  chance 
in  the  world  in  his  mind  for  some  time. 

"I  did  get  some  schooling,"  she  told  him.  "You 
wouldn't  think  it  to  hear  me  talk,  because  I'm  careless, 
but  I've  been  taught,  and  I  can  do  better.  Yet  if 
I  don't  see  to  it,  how  am  I  to  know  that  the  children 
will  have  as  much  even  as  I've  had  ?  Mountain  air 
is  mighty  pure  and  healthy,  and  the  water  up  here  is 
the  finest  you  ever  drank;  but  that's  only  for  the  body. 
Of  course  there's  beauty  all  about  you  —  there  was 
never  anything  more  sightly  than  big  Unaka  and  the 
ridges  that  run  from  it,  and  the  sky,  and  the  big 
woods  —  and  all.  And  yet  human  beings  have  got 


to  have  more  than  that.  I  aim  to  make  a  chance  for 
the  children." 

"Are  you  going  to  bring  them  down  and  let  them 
work  in  the  mills  with  you?"  Stoddard  asked  in  a 
perfectly  colourless  tone. 

Johnnie  looked  embarrassed.  Her  week  in  the 
cotton  mill  had  fixed  indelibly  on  her  mind  the  picture 
of  the  mill  child,  straggling  to  work  in  the  gray 
dawn,  sleepy,  shivering,  unkempt;  of  the  young 
things  creeping  up  and  down  the  aisles  between  the 
endlessly  turning  spools,  dully  regarding  the  frames 
to  see  that  the  threads  were  not  fouled  or  broken; 
of  the  tired  little  groups  as  they  pressed  close  to  the 
shut  windows,  neglecting  their  work  to  stare  out  into 
a  world  of  blue  sky  and  blowing  airs  —  a  world  they 
could  see  but  not  enter,  and  no  breath  of  which  could 
come  in  to  them.  And  so  she  looked  embarrassed. 
She  was  afraid  that  memory  of  those  tired  little  faces 
would  show  in  her  own  countenance.  Her  hands  on 
the  steering-wheel  trembled.  She  remembered  that 
Mr.  Stoddard  was,  as  Shade  had  said,  one  of  the  bosses 
in  the  Hardwick  mill.  It  seemed  too  terrible  to  offend 
him.  He  certainly  thought  no  ill  of  having  children 
employed;  she  must  not  seem  to  criticize  him;  she 
answered  evasively: 

"Well,  of  course  they  might  do  that.  I  did  think 
of  it  —  before  I  went  down  there." 

"  Before  you  went  to  work  in  the  mills  yourself," 
supplied  Stoddard,  again  in  that  colourless  tone. 

"Ye — yes,"  hesitated  Johnnie;    "but  you  mustn't 


9o    THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

get  the  idea  that  I  don't  love  my  work  —  because  I  do. 
You  see  the  children  haven't  had  any  schooling  yet, 
and  —  well,  I'm  a  great,  big,  stout  somebody,  and  it 
looks  like  I'm  the  one  to  work  in  the  mill." 

She  turned  to  him  fleetingly  a  countenance  of  appeal 
and  perplexity.  It  seemed  indeed  anything  but  certain 
that  she  was  one  to  work  in  the  mill.  There  was  some 
thing  almost  grotesque  in  the  idea  which  made  Stod- 
dard  smile  a  little  at  her  earnestness. 

"I'd  like  to  talk  it  over  with  you  when  you've  been 
at  work  there  longer,"  he  found  himself  saying.  "You 
see,  I'm  studying  mill  conditions  from  one  side,  and 
you're  studying  them  from  the  opposite  —  perhaps 
we  could  help  each  other." 

"I  sure  will  tell  you  what  I  find  out,"  agreed  Johnnie 
heartily.  "I  reckon  you'll  want  to  know  how  the 
work  seems  to  me  at  the  side  of  such  as  I  was  used 
to  in  the  mountains;  but  I  hope  you  won't  inquire 
how  long  it  took  me  to  learn,  for  I'm  afraid  I'm  going 
to  make  a  poor  record.  If  you  was  to  ask  me  how 
much  I  was  able  to  earn  there,  and  how  much  back 
on  Unaka,  I  could  make  a  good  report  for  the  mill 
on  that,  because  that's  all  that's  the  matter  with  the 
mountains  —  they're  a  beautiful  place  to  live,  but 
a  body  can't  hardly  earn  a  cent,  work  as  they 
may." 

Johnnie  forgot  herself  —  she  was  always  doing 
that  —  and  she  talked  freely  and  well.  It  was  as 
inevitable  that  she  should  be  drawn  to  Gray  Stoddard 
as  that  she  should  desire  the  clothing  and  culture  Miss 


ABOVE  THE  VALLEY  91 

Lydia  possessed.  For  the  present,  one  aspiration 
struck  her  as  quite  as  innocent  as  the  other.  Stoddard 
had  not  yet  emerged  from  the  starry  constellations 
among  which  she  set  him,  to  take  form  as  a  young  man, 
a  person  who  might  indeed  return  her  regard.  Her 
emotions  were  in  that  nebulous,  formative  stage  when 
but  a  touch  would  be  needed  to  show  her  whither  the 
regard  tended,  yet  till  that  touch  should  come,  she 
as  unashamedly  adored  Gray  as  any  child  of  five  could 
have  done.  It  was  not  till  they  were  well  down  the 
road  to  Cottonville  that  she  realized  the  bald  fact  that 
she,  a  mill  girl,  was  riding  in  an  automobile  with  one 
of  the  mill  owners. 

She  was  casting  about  for  some  reasonable  phrase 
in  which  to  clothe  the  statement  that  it  would  be  better 
he  should  stop  the  car  and  let  her  out;  she  had  parted 
her  lips  to  ask  him  to  take  the  wheel,  when  they  rounded 
a  turn  and  came  upon  a  company  of  loom-fixers  from 
the  village  below.  Behind  them,  in  a  giggling  group, 
strolled  a  dozen  mill  girls  in  their  Sunday  best.  Johnnie 
had  sight  of  Mandy  Meacham,  fixing  eyes  of  terrified 
admiration  upon  her;  then  she  nodded  in  reply  to 
Shade  Buckheath's  angry  stare,  and  a  rattle  of  wheels 
apprized  her  that  a  carriage  was  passing  on  the  other 
side.  This  vehicle  contained  the  entire  Hardwick 
family,  with  Lydia  Sessions  turning  long  to  look  her 
incredulous  amazement  back  at  them  from  her  seat 
beside  her  brother-in-law. 

It  was  all  over  in  a  moment.  The  loom-fixers  had 
debouched  upon  the  long,  wooden  bridge  which  crossed 


92    THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

the  ravine  to  their  quarters;  the  girls  were  going  on, 
Mandy  Meacham  hanging  back  and  staring;  a  tree 
finally  shut  out  Miss  Sessions's  accusing  countenance. 

"Please  stop  and  let  me  out  here,"  said  Johnnie, 
in  a  scarcely  audible  voice. 

When  Stoddard  would  have  remonstrated,  or  asked 
why,  his  lips  were  closed  by  sight  of  her  daunted, 
miserable  face.  He  knew  as  well  as  she  the  mad 
imprudence  of  the  thing  which  they  had  done,  and 
blamed  himself  roundly  with  it  all. 

"I'll  not  forget  to  bring  the  books  we  were  talking 
of/'  he  made  haste  to  say.  He  picked  up  the  little 
basket  from  the  floor  of  the  car. 

"You'd  better  keep  the  flowers  in  that/'  Johnnie 
told  him  lifelessly.  Her  innocent  dream  was  broken 
into  by  a  cruel  reality.  She  was  struggling  blindly 
under  the  weight  of  all  her  little  world's  disappro 
bation. 

"You'll  let  me  return  the  basket  when  I  bring  you 
the  books,"  Gray  suggested,  helplessly. 

"I  don't  know,"  Johnnie  hesitated.  Then,  as  a 
sudden  inspiration  came  to  her,  "Mandy  Meacham 
said  she'd  try  to  get  me  into  a  club  for  girls  that  Miss 
Sessions  has.  She  said  Miss  Sessions  would  lend 
me  books.  Maybe  you  might  just  leave  them  with 
her.  I'm  sure  I  should  be  mighty  proud  to  have  them. 
I  know  I'll  love  to  read  them;  but  —  well,  you  might 
just  leave  them  with  her." 

A  little  satiric  sparkle  leaped  to  life  in  Stoddard's 
eyes.  He  looked  at  the  innocent,  upraised  face  in 


ABOVE  THE  VALLEY  93 

wonder.  The  most  experienced  manoeuverer  of 
Society's  legion  could  not  have  handled  a  difficult 
situation  more  deftly. 

"The  very  thing,"   he   said   cheerily.     "I'll  talk  to 
Miss  Sessions  about  it  to-morrow." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

OF   THE    USE    OF   WINGS 

I  TOLD  you  I'd  speak  a  good  word  for  you," 
shouted  Mandy  Meacham,  putting  her  lips  down 
close  to  Johnnie's  ear  where  she  struggled  and 
fought  with  her  looms  amid  the  deafening  clamour  of 
the  weaving  room. 

The  girl  looked  up,  flushed,  tired,  but  eagerly  recep 
tive. 

"Yes,"  her  red  lips  shaped  the  word  to  the  other's 
eyes,  though  no  sound  could  make  itself  heard  above 
that  din  except  such  eldritch  shrieks  as  Mandy's. 

"I  done  it.  I  got  you  a  invite  to  some  doin's  at  the 
Uplift  Club  a-Wednesday." 

Again  Johnnie  nodded  and  shaped  "Yes"  with  her 
lips.  She  added  something  which  might  have  been 
"thank  you";  the  adorable  smile  that  accompanied  it 
said  as  much. 

Mandy  watched  her,  fascinated  as  the  lithe,  strong 
young  figure  bent  and  strained  to  correct  a  crease  in  the 
web  where  it  turned  the  roll. 

"They  never  saw  anything  like  you  in  their  born 
days,  I'll  bet,"  she  yelled.  "I  never  did.  You're 
awful  quare  —  but  somehow  I  sorter  like  ye."  And 
she  scuttled  back  to  her  looms  as  the  room  boss  came 

94 


OF  THE  USE  OF  WINGS  95 

in.  A  weaver  works  by  the  piece,  but  Mandy  had 
been  reproved  too  often  for  slovenly  methods  not  to 
know  that  she  might  be  fined  for  neglect.  Her  looms 
stood  where  she  could  continually  get  the  newcomer's 
figure  against  the  light,  with  its  swift  motion,  its  supple 
curves,  and  the  brave  carriage  of  the  well-formed  head. 
The  sight  gave  Mandy  a  curious  satisfaction,  as  though 
it  uttered  what  she  would  fain  have  said  to  the  classes 
above  her.  Hers  was  something  the  feeling  which  the 
private  in  the  ranks  has  for  the  standard-bearer  who 
carries  the  colours  aloft,  or  the  dashing  officer  who 
leads  the  charge.  Johnnie  was  the  challenge  she 
would  have  flung  in  the  face  of  the  enemy. 

"I'll  bet  if  you'd  put  one  of  Miss  Lyddy's  dresses 
on  her  she'd  look  nobby,"  Mandy  ruminated,  address 
ing  her  looms.  "That's  what  she  would.  She'd 
have  'em  all  f — fa — faded  away,  as  the  feller  says." 

And  so  it  came  about  that  the  next  day  Johnnie  Consa- 
dine  did  not  go  to  the  mill  at  all,  but  spent  the  morning 
washing  and  ironing  her  one  light  print  dress.  It 
was  as  coarse  almost  as  flour-sacking,  and  the  blue  dots 
on  it  had  paled  till  they  made  a  suspicious  speckle 
not  unlike  mildew;  yet  when  she  had  combed  her  thick, 
fair  hair,  rolled  it  back  from  the  white  brow  and 
braided  it  to  a  coronet  round  her  head  as  she  had  seen 
that  of  the  lady  on  the  porch  at  the  Palace  of  Pleasure; 
when,  cleansed  and  smooth,  she  put  the  frock  on,  one 
forgot  the  dress  in  the  youth  of  her,  the  hope,  the 
glorious  expectation  there  was  in  that  eager  face. 

The  ladies  assisting  in  Miss  Lydia  Sessions's  Uplift 


96    THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

Club  for  work  among  the  mill  girls,  were  almost 
all  young  and  youngish  women.  The  mothers  in 
Israel  attacked  the  more  serious  problems  of  orphanages, 
winter's  supplies  of  coal,  and  clothing  for  the  destitute. 

"  But  their  souls  must  be  fed,  too,"  Miss  Lydia 
asserted  as  she  recruited  her  helpers  for  the  Uplift 
work.  "Their  souls  must  be  fed;  and  who  can  reach 
the  souls  of  these  young  girls  so  well  as  we  who  are 
near  their  own  age,  and  who  have  had  time  for  culture 
and  spiritual  growth?" 

It  was  a  good  theory.  Perhaps  one  may  say  that  it 
remains  a  good  theory.  The  manner  of  uplifting  was 
to  select  a  certain  number  of  mill  girls  whom  it  was 
deemed  well  to  help,  approach  them  on  the  subject, 
and,  if  they  appeared  amenable,  pay  a  substitute 
to  take  charge  of  their  looms  while  those  in  process  of 
being  uplifted  attended  a  meeting  of  the  Club.  The 
gathering  to  which  Johnnie  was  bidden  was  held  in 
honour  of  a  lady  from  London  who  had  written  a  book 
on  some  subject  which  it  was  thought  ought  to  appeal 
to  workingwomen.  This  lady  intended  to  address 
the  company  and  to  mingle  with  them  and  get  their 
views.  Most  of  those  present  being  quite  unfurnished 
with  any  views  whatever  on  the  problem  she  discussed, 
her  position  was  something  that  of  a  pick-pocket  in 
a  moneyless  crowd;  but  of  this  she  was  fortunately 
and  happily  unaware. 

Mandy  Meacham  regarded  Johnnie's  preparation 
for  the  function  with  some  disfavour. 

"Ef  you  fix  up  like  that,"  she  remonstrated,  "you're 


OF  THE   USE   OF  WINGS  97 

bound  to  look  too  nice  to  suit  Miss  Lyddy.  They 
won't  be  no  men  thar.  I'm  goin'  to  wear  my  workin' 
dress,  and  tell  her  I  hadn't  nary  minute  nor  nary  cent 
to  do  other." 

Johnnie  laughed  a  little  at  this,  as  though  it  were 
intended  for  a  joke. 

"But  I  did  have  time,"  she  objected.  "Miss 
Sessions  would  pay  a  substitute  for  the  whole  day 
though  I  told  her  I'd  only  need  the  afternoon  for  the 
party.  I  think  it  was  mighty  good  of  her,  and  it's 
as  little  as  I  can  do  to  make  myself  look  as  nice  as  I 
can." 

"You  ain't  got  the  sense  you  was  born  with!" 
fretted  Mandy.  "Them  thar  kind  ladies  ain't  a- 
carin'  for  you  to  look  so  fine.  They'll  attend  to  all  the 
fine  lookin'  theirselves.  What  they  want  is  to  know 
how  bad  off  you  air,  an'  to  have  you  say  how  much 
what  they  have  did  or  give  has  helped  you." 

Such  interchange  of  views  brought  the  two  girls 
to  the  door  of  the  little  frame  chapel,  given  over  for 
the  day  to  Uplift  work.  Within  it  rose  a  bustle  and 
clatter,  a  hum  of  voices  that  spoke,  a  frilling  of  nervous, 
shrill  laughter  to  edge  the  sound,  and  back  of  that  the 
clink  of  dishes  from  a  rear  room  where  refreshments 
were  being  prepared. 

Miss  Sessions,  near  the  door,  had  a  receiving  line, 
quite  in  the  manner  of  any  reception.  She  herself, 
in  a  blouse  of  marvellous  daintiness  and  sweeping 
skirts,  stood  beside  the  visitor  from  London  to  present 
her.  To  this  day  Johnnie  is  uncertain  as  to  where 


98    THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

the  wonderful  blue  silk  frock  of  that  lady  from  abroad 
was  fastened,  though  she  gave  the  undivided  efforts 
of  sharp  young  eyes  and  an  inquiring  mind  to  the 
problem  a  good  portion  of  the  time  while  it  was  within 
her  view.  The  Englishwoman  was  called  Mrs.  Arch- 
bold,  and  on  her  other  hand  stood  a  tall,  slim  lady  with 
long  gray-green  eyes,  prematurely  gray  hair  which 
had  plainly  been  red,  and  an  odd  little  twist  to  her 
smile.  This  was  Mrs.  Hexter,  wife  of  the  owner  of 
the  big  woollen  mills  across  the  creek,  and  only  bidden 
in  to  assist  the  Uplift  work  because  the  position  of  her 
husband  gave  her  much  power.  These,  with  the 
Misses  Burchard,  daughters  of  the  rector,  formed  the 
reception  committee. 

"I  am  so  charmed  to  see  you  here  to-day,"  Miss 
Lydia  smiled  as  they  entered.  It  was  part  of  her 
theory  to  treat  the  mill  girls  exactly  as  she  would 
members  of  her  own  circle.  Mandy,  being  old  at  the 
business,  possessed  herself  of  the  high-held  hand 
presented;  but  Johnnie  only  looked  at  it  in  astonish 
ment,  uncertain  whether  Miss  Lydia  meant  to  shake 
hands  or  pat  her  on  the  head.  Yet  when  she  did 
finally  divine  what  was  intended,  the  quality  of  her 
apologetic  smile  ought  to  have  atoned  for  her  lapse. 

"I'm  sure  proud  to  be  here  with  you-all,"  she  said. 
"Looks  like  to  me  you  are  mighty  kind  to  strangers." 

The  ineradicable  dignity  of  the  true  mountaineer, 
who  has  always  been  as  good  as  the  best  in  his  environ 
ment,  preserved  Johnnie  from  any  embarrassment, 
any  tendency  to  shrink  or  cringe.  Her  beauty,  in  the 


OF  THE  USE  OF  WINGS  99 

fresh-washed  print  gown,  was  like  a  thing  released  and, 
as  Miss  Sessions  might  have  put  it,  rampant. 

Gray  Stoddard  had  gone  directly  to  Lydia  Sessions, 
with  his  proffers  of  books,  and  his  suggestions  for 
Johnnie.  The  explanation  of  how  the  girl  came  to  be 
riding  in  his  car  that  Sunday  morning  was  neither  as 
full  nor  as  penitent  as  Miss  Lydia  could  have  wished; 
yet  it  did  recognize  the  impropriety  of  the  act,  and  was, 
in  so  far,  satisfactory.  Miss  Sessions  made  haste  to 
form  an  alliance  with  the  young  man  for  the  special 
upliftment  of  Johnnie  Consadine.  She  would  have 
greatly  preferred  to  interest  him  in  Mandy  Meacham, 
but  beggars  can  not  be  choosers,  and  she  took  what 
she  could  get. 

"Whom  have  we  here?"  demanded  the  lady  from 
London,  leaning  across  and  peering  at  Johnnie  with 
friendly,  near-sighted  eyes.  "Why,  what  a  blooming 
girl,  to  be  sure!  You  haven't  been  long  from  the 
country,  I'll  venture  to  guess,  my  dear." 

Johnnie  blushed  and  dimpled  at  being  so  kindly 
welcomed.  The  mountain  people  are  undemonstra 
tive  in  speech  and  action;  and  that  "my  dear"  seemed 
wonderful. 

"I  come  from  away  up  in  the  mountains,"  she  said 
softly. 

"From  away  up  in  the  mountains,"  repeated  the 
Englishwoman,  her  smiling  gaze  dwelling  on  Johnnie's 
radiant  face.  "  Why  yes  —  so  one  would  conceive. 
Well,  you  mustn't  lose  all  those  pretty  roses  in  the 
mill  down  here."  She  was  a  visitor,  remember;  resi- 


ioo   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

dents  of  Cottonville  never  admitted  that  roses,  or  any 
thing  else  desirable,  could  be  lost  in  the  mills. 

O  7 

"I'll  not,"  said  Johnnie  sturdily.  "I'm  goin'  to 
earn  my  way  and  send  for  Mother  and  the  children, 
if  hard  work'll  do  it;  but  I'm  a  mighty  big,  stout, 
healthy  somebody,  and  I  aim  to  keep  so." 

Mrs.  Archbold  patted  the  tall  young  shoulder  as  she 
turned  to  Mandy  Meacham  whom  Miss  Lydia  was 
eager  to  put  through  her  paces  for  the  benefit  of  the 
lady  from  London. 

"Isn't  that  the  girl  Mr.  Stoddard  was  speaking  to 
me  about?"  she  inquired  in  a  whisper  as  Johnnie 
moved  away.  "I  think  it  must  be.  He  said  she  was 
such  a  beauty,  and  I  scarcely  believe  there  could  be 
two  like  her  in  one  town." 

''Such  a  type,'  were  Mr.  Stoddard's  exact  words 
I  believe,"  returned  Miss  Sessions  a  little  frostily. 
"Yes,  John  Consadine  is  quite  a  marked  type  of  the 
mountaineer.  She  is,  as  she  said  to  you,  a  stout, 
healthy  creature,  and,  I  understand,  very  industrious. 
I  approve  of  John." 

She  approved  of  John,  but  she  addressed  herself  to 
exploiting  Mandy;  and  the  lady  in  the  blue  silk  frock 
learned  how  poor  and  helpless  the  Meacham  woman 
had  been  before  she  got  in  to  the  mill  work,  how 
greatly  the  Uplift  Club  had  benefited  her,  with  many 
interesting  details.  Yet  as  the  English  lady  went  from 
group  to  group  in  company  with  Miss  Lydia  and 
T.  H.  Hexter's  wife,  her  quick  eyes  wandered  across  the 
room  to  where  a  bright  head  rose  a  little  taller  than 


OF  THE  USE   OF  WINGS  101 

its  fellows,  and  occasional  bursts  of  laughter  told  that 
Johnnie  was  in  a  merry  mood. 

The  threadbare  attempt  at  a  reception  was  gotten 
through  laboriously.  The  girls  were  finally  settled 
in  orderly  rows,  and  Mrs.  Archbold  led  to  the  platform. 
The  talk  she  had  prepared  for  them  was  upon  aspiration. 
It  was  an  essay,  in  fact,  and  she  had  delivered  it  suc 
cessfully  before  many  women's  clubs.  She  is  not  to  be 
blamed  that  the  language  was  as  absolutely  above  the 
comprehension  of  her  hearers  as  though  it  had  been 
Greek.  She  was  a  busy  woman,  with  other  aims  and 
activities  than  those  of  working  among  the  masses; 
Miss  Lydia  had  heard  her  present  talk,  fancied  it,  and 
thought  it  wTould  be  the  very  thing  for  the  Uplift  Club. 

For  thirty  minutes  Johnnie  sat  concentrating  des 
perately  on  every  sentence  that  fell  from  the  lips  of 
the  lady  from  London,  trying  harder  to  understand 
than  she  had  ever  tried  to  do  anything  in  her  life. 
She  put  all  her  quick,  young  mind  and  avid  soul  into 
the  struggle  to  receive,  though  piercingly  aware  every 
instant  of  the  difference  between  her  attire  and  that 
of  the  wromen  who  had  bidden  her  there,  noting  acutely 
variations  between  their  language  and  hers,  their  voices, 
their  gestures  and  hers.  These  were  the  women  of 
Gray  Stoddard's  world.  Such  were  his  feminine  associ 
ates;  here,  then,  must  be  her  models. 

Mandy  and  her  likes  got  from  the  talk  perhaps  noth 
ing  at  all,  except  that  rich  people  might  have  what 
they  liked  if  they  wanted  it  —  that  at  least  was  Miss 
Meacham's  summing  up  of  the  matter  when  she  went 


102   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

home  that  night.  But  to  Johnnie  some  of  the  sentences 
remained. 

"You  struggle  and  climb  and  strive,"  said  Mrs. 
Archbold  earnestly,  "when,  if  you  only  knew  it,  you 
have  wings.  And  what  are  the  wings  of  the  soul  ? 
The  wings  of  the  soul  are  aspiration.  Oh,  that  we 
would  spread  them  and  fly  to  the  heights  our  longing 
eyes  behold,  the  heights  we  dream  of  when  we  cannot 
see  them,  the  heights  we  foolishly  and  mistakenly 
expect  to  climb  some  day." 

Again  Johnnie  saw  herself  coming  down  the  ridge 
at  Shade's  side;  descending  into  the  shadow,  stepping 
closer  to  the  droning  mills;  while  above  her  the  Palace 
of  Pleasure  swam  in  its  golden  glory,  and  these  who  were 
privileged  to  do  so  went  out  and  in  and  laughed  and 
were  happy.  Were  such  heights  as  that  what  this 
woman  meant  ?  Johnnie  had  let  it  typify  to  her  the 
heights  to  which  she  intended  to  climb.  Was  it  indeed 
possible  to  fly  to  them  instead  ?  The  talk  ended. 
She  sat  so  long  with  bent  head  that  Miss  Sessions 
finally  came  round  and  took  the  unoccupied  chair 
beside  her. 

"Are  you  thinking  it  over,  John  ?"  she  inquired  with 
that  odd  little  note  of  hostility  which  she  could  never 
quite  keep  out  of  her  voice  when  she  addressed  this 
girl. 

"Yes'm,"  replied  Johnnie  meekly. 

Several  who  were  talking  together  in  the  vicinity 
relinquished  their  conversation  to  listen  to  the  two. 
Mrs.  Hexter  shot  one  of  her  quaint,  crooked  smiles 


OF  THE  USE   OF  WINGS  103 

at  the  lady  from  London  and,  with  a  silent  gesture, 
bade  her  hearken. 

"I  think  these  things  are  most  important  for  you 
girls  who  have  to  earn  your  daily  bread,"  Miss  Sessions 
condescended. 

"  Daily  bread,"  echoed  Johnnie  softly.  She  loved 
fine  phrases  as  she  loved  fine  clothes.  "I  know  where 
that  comes  from.  It's  in  the  prayer  about  'daily 
bread,'  and  'the  kingdom  and  the  power  and  the 
glory.'  Don't  you  think  those  are  beautiful  words, 
Miss  Lydia  —  the  'power  and  the  glory'?" 

Miss  Sessions's  lips  sucked  in  with  that  singular, 
half-reluctant  expression  of  condemnation  which  was 
becoming  fairly  familiar  to  Johnnie. 

"Oh,  John!"  she  said  reprovingly,  'Daily  bread' 
is  all  we  have  anything  to  do  with.  Don't  you 
remember  that  it  says  'Thine  be  the  kingdom  and  the 
power  and  the  glory'  ?  Thine,  John  --  Thine." 

"Yes'm,"  returned  Johnnie  submissively.  But  it 
was  in  her  heart  that  certain  upon  this  earth  had  their 
share  of  kingdoms  and  powers  and  the  glories.  And, 
although  she  uttered  that  submissive  "Yes'm,"  her 
high-couraged  young  heart  registered  a  vow  to  achieve 
its  own  slice  of  these  things  as  well  as  of  daily  bread. 

"  Didn't  you  enjoy  Mrs.  Archbold's  talk  ?  I  thought 
it  very  fine,"  Miss  Sessions  pursued. 

"It  sure  was  that,"  sighed  Johnnie.  "I  don't 
know  as  I  understand  it  all  —  every  word.  I  tried 
to,  but  maybe  I  got  some  of  it  wrong." 

"What  is  it  you  don't  understand,  John?"  inquired 


io4   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

Miss    Lydia    patronizingly.     "Ask    me.     I'll    explain 
anything  you  care  to  know  about." 

Johnnie  turned  to  her,  too  desperately  in  earnest  to 
note  the  other  listeners  to  the  conversation. 

"Why,  that  about  stretching  out  the  wings  of  your 
spirit  and  flying.  Do  you  believe  that?" 

"I  certainly  do,"  Miss  Sessions  said  brightly,  as  de 
lighted  at  Johnnie's  remembering  part  of  the  visitor's 
words  as  a  small  boy  when  he  has  taught  his  terrier 
to  walk  on  its  hind  legs. 

'Then  if  a  body  wants  a  thing  bad  enough,  and 
keeps  on  a-wanting  it  —  Oh,  just  awful  —  is  that 
aspiration  ?  Will  the  thing  you  want  that-a-way  come 
to  pass  ?" 

"We-e-ell,"  Miss  Sessions  deemed  it  necessary  to 
qualify  her  statement  to  this  fiery  and  exact  young 
questioner.  "You  have  to  want  the  right  thing,  of 
course,  John.  You  have  to  want  the  right  thing." 

"Yes'm,"  agreed  Johnnie  heartily.  "And  I'd  'low 
it  was  certainly  the  right  thing,  if  it  was  what  good 
folks  —  like  you  —  want." 

Miss  Sessions  flushed,  yet  she  looked  pleased,  aware, 
if  Johnnie  was  not,  of  the  number  of  listeners.  Here 
was  her  work  of  Uplift  among  the  mill  girls  being 
justified. 

"I  —  Oh,  really,  I  couldn't  set  myself  up  as  a 
pattern,"  she  said  modestly. 

"  But    you    are,"     Johnnie    assured     her     warmly. 

'There  ain't  anybody  in  this  room  I'd  rather  go  by 

as  by  you."     The  fine  gray  eyes  had  been  travelling 


OF  THE   USE   OF  WINGS  105 

from  neck  to  belt,  from  shoulder  to  wrist  of  the  lady 
who  was  enlightening  her.  "I  think  I  never  in  all 
my  life  seen  anything  more  sightly  than  that  dress-body 
you're  a-wearin',"  she  murmured  softly.  "  Where  - 
how  might  a  person  come  by  such  a  one  ?  If  you 
thought  that  my  wishing  and  —  aspiring  —  would  ever 
bring  me  such  as  that,  I'd  sure  try." 

There  rose  a  titter  about  the  two.  It  spread  and 
swelled  till  the  whole  assembly  was  in  a  gale  of  laughter. 
Miss  Sessions's  becoming  blush  deepened  to  the  tint 
of  angry  mortification.  She  looked  about  and  assumed 
the  air  of  a  schoolmistress  with  a  room  full  of  noisy 
pupils;  but  Johnnie,  her  cheeks  pink  too,  first  swept 
them  all  with  an  astonished  gaze  which  flung  the  long 
lashes  up  in  such  a  wide  curve  of  innocence  as 
made  her  eyes  bewitching,  then  joined  it,  and  laughed 
as  loud  as  any  of  them  at  she  knew  not  what.  It  was 
the  one  touch  to  put  her  with  the  majority,  and  leave 
her  mentor  stranded  in  a  bleak  minority.  Miss 
Sessions  objected  to  the  position. 

"Oh,  John!"  she  said  severely,  so  soon  as  she  could 
be  heard  above  the  giggles.  "  How  you  have  misunder 
stood  me,  and  Mrs.  Archbold,  and  all  we  intended 
to  bring  to  you!  What  is  a  mere  blouse  like  this  to 
the  uplift,  the  outlook,  the  development  we  were  striving 
to  offer  ?  I  confess  I  am  deeply  disappointed  in  you." 

This  sobered  Johnnie,  instantly. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  said,  bending  forward  to  lay  a 
wistful,  penitent  hand  on  that  of  Miss  Sessions.  "I'll 
try  to  understand  better.  I  reckon  I'm  right  dumb, 


io6   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

and  you'll  have  to  have  a  lot  of  patience  with  me.  I 
don't  rightly  know  what  to  aspire  after." 

The  amende  was  so  sweetly  made  that  even  Lydia 
Sessions,  still  exceedingly  employed  at  being  pictorially 
chagrined  over  the  depravity  of  her  neophyte,  could 
but  be  appeased. 

"I'll  try  to  furnish  you  more  suitable  objects  for 
your  ambition/'  she  murmured  virtuously. 

But  the  lady  with  the  gray  hair  and  the  odd  little 
twist  to  her  smile  now  leaned  forward  and  took  a  hand 
in  the  conversation. 

"See  here,  Lydia,"  Mrs.  Hexter  remonstrated  in 
crisp  tones,  "what's  the  matter  with  the  girl's  aspiring 
after  a  blouse  like  yours  ?  You  took  a  lot  of  trouble 
and  spent  a  lot  of  money  to  get  that  one.  I  noticed 
you  were  careful  to  tell  me  it  was  imported,  because 
I  couldn't  see  the  neck-band  and  find  out  that  detail 
for  myself.  That  blouse  is  a  dream  —  it's  a  dream. 
If  it's  good  enough  aspiration  for  you  or  me,  why  not 
for  this  girl  ?" 

"Oh,  but  Mrs.  Hexter,"  murmured  the  mortified 
Miss  Sessions,  glancing  uneasily  toward  the  mill-girl 
contingent  which  was  listening  eagerly,  and  then  at 
the  speaker  of  the  day,  "I  am  sure  Mrs.  Archbold  will 
agree  with  me  that  it  would  be  a  gross,  material 
idea  to  aspire  after  blouses  and  such-like,  when 
the  poor  child  needs  —  er  —  other  things  so  much 
more." 

"Yes'm,  I  do  that,"  conceded  Johnnie  dutifully, 
those  changeful  eyes  of  hers  full  of  pensive,  denied  de- 


OF  THE  USE   OF  WINGS  107 

sire,  as  they  swept  the  dainty  gowns  of  the  women  be 
fore  her.  "I  do  —  you're  right.  I  wouldn't  think  of 
spending  my  money  for  a  dress-body  like  that  when 
I'm  mighty  near  as  barefoot  as  a  rabbit  this  minute, 
and  the  little  'uns  back  home  has  to  have  every  cent 
I  can  save.  I  just  thought  that  if  beautiful  wishes 
was  ever  really  coming  true  —  if  it  was  right  and 
proper  for  a  person  to  have  beautiful  wishes  —  I'd 
like " 

Her  voice  faltered  into  discouraged  silence.  Tears 
gathered  and  hung  thick  on  her  lashes.  Miss  Sessions 
sent  a  beseeching  look  toward  the  lady  from  London. 
Mrs.  Archbold  stepped  accommodatingly  into  the 
breach. 

"All  aspiration  is  good,"  she  said  gently.  "I 
shouldn't  be  discouraged  because  it  took  a  rather 
concrete  form." 

Johnnie's  eyes  were  upon  her  face,  trying  to  under 
stand.  A  "concrete  form"  she  imagined  might  allude 
to  the  fact  that  Miss  Sessions  had  a  better  figure  than 
she. 

Mrs.  Hexter,  glad  of  an  ally,  tossed  that  incorrigible 
gray  head  of  hers  and  dashed  into  the  conversation 
once  more. 

"If  I  were  you,  Johnnie,  I'd  just  aspire  as  hard  as 
I  could  in  that  direction,"  she  said  recklessly,  her 
mischievous  glance  upon  the  flowing  lines  of  Johnnie's 
young  shoulders  and  throat.  "A  blouse  like  that  would 
be  awfully  fetching  on  you.  You'd  look  lovely  in  it. 
Why  shouldn't  you  aspire  to  it  ?  Maybe  you'll  have 


io8   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

one  just  as  pretty  before  the  style  changes.  I  am  sure 
you're  nice  enough,  and  good-looking  enough,  for  the 
best  in  the  way  of  purple  and  fine  linen  to  come  to  you 
by  the  law  of  attraction  —  don't  you  believe  in  the  law 
of  attraction,  Mrs.  Archbold  ?" 

Lydia  Sessions  got  up  and  moved  away  in  shocked 
silence.  Mrs.  Hexter  was  a  good  deal  of  a  thorn  in 
her  flesh,  and  she  only  tolerated  her  because  of  Mr. 
Hexter  and  his  position.  After  the  retreating  and 
disaffected  hostess  came  Mrs.  Archbold's  voice,  with 
a  thread  of  laughter  in  it. 

"I  believe  in  the  law  of  such  attraction  as  this  girl 
has,"  she  said  kindly.  "  What  is  it  your  Walt  Whitman 
says  about  the  fluid  and  attaching  character  ?  That 
all  hearts  yearn  toward  it,  that  old  and  young  must  give 
it  love.  That  is,  my  dear,"  turning  explainingly  to 
Johnnie,  "the  character  which  gives  much  love,  takes 
much  interest  in  those  about  it,  makes  itself  one  with 
other  people  and  their  affairs  —  do  you  get  my 
meaning  ?  " 

"I  think  I  understand,"  half  whispered  Johnnie, 
glowing  eyes  on  the  face  of  the  speaker.  "Do  you 
mean  that  I  am  anything  like  that  ?  I  do  love  every 
body  —  most.  But  how  could  I  help  it,  when  every 
body  is  so  good  and  kind  to  me  ?" 

The  glances  of  the  older  women  met  across  the 
bright  head. 

"She  won't  have  much  use  for  feet  to  climb  with," 
Mrs.  Hexter  summed  it  up,  taking  her  figure  from 
the  talk  earlier  in  the  afternoon.  "She's  got  wings." 


OF  THE  USE  OF  WINGS  109 

And  puzzled  Johnnie  could  only  smile  from  one  to 
the  other. 

"Wings!'*  whispered  Mandy  Meacham  to  herself. 
Mandy  was  not  only  restricted  to  the  use  of  spiritual 
feet;  she  was  lame  in  the  soul  as  well,  poor  creature, 
"Wings  —  air  they  callin'  her  a  angel?" 


CHAPTER  IX 

A    BIT   OF    METAL 

IN  THE  valleys  of  Tennessee,  spring  has  a  trick 
of  dropping  down   on  the  world  like  a  steaming 
wet    blanket.      The   season    that   Johnnie    Con- 
sadine  went  to  work  in  the  mills   at  Cottonville,  May 
came  in  with  warm  rains.   Stifling  nights  followed  sultry, 
drenching   days,   till   vegetation   everywhere   sprouted 
unwholesomely  and  the  mountain  slopes  had  almost 
the  reek  of  tropic  jungles. 

Yet  the  girl  performed  the  labours  of  a  factory  weaver 
with  almost  passionate  enthusiasm  and  devotion. 
Always  and  always  she  was  looking  beyond  the  mere 
present  moment.  If  tending  loom  was  the  road 
which  led  to  the  power  and  the  glory,  what  need  to 
complain  that  it  —  the  mere  road — was  but  dull 
earth  ? 

She  tried  conscientiously,  to  do  and  be  exactly  what 
Lydia  Sessions  seemed  to  want.  Gray  Stoddard's 
occasional  spoken  word,  or  the  more  lengthy  written 
messages  he  had  taken  to  putting  in  the  books  he  sent 
her,  seemed  to  demand  of  her  nothing,  but  always 
inspired  to  much.  For  all  his  disposition  to  keep 
hands  off  the  personal  development  of  his  friends,  per 
haps  on  account  of  it,  Gray  made  an  excellent  teacher, 

no 


A  BIT  OF  METAL  in 

and  these  writings  —  the  garnered  grain,  the  gist,  of 
his  own  wide  culture  —  were  the  very  sinews  for  the 
race  Johnnie  was  setting  out  on.  She  began  to  intelli 
gently  guard  her  speech,  her  manner,  her  very  thoughts, 
conforming  them  to  what  she  knew  of  his  ideals. 
Miss  Session's  striving  to  build  up  an  imitation  lady 
on  the  sincere  foundation  Johnnie  offered  appealed 
less  to  the  girl,  and  had  therefore  less  effect;  but  she 
immediately  responded  to  Stoddard's  methods,  tuck 
ing  in  to  the  books  she  returned  written  queries  or 
records  of  perplexity,  which  gradually  expanded  into 
notes,  expressions  of  her  own  awakened  thought,  and 
even  fancies,  which  held  from  the  first  a  quaint  charm 
and  individuality. 

The  long,  hot  days  at  the  foot  of  the  hills  did  seem 
to  the  mountain-bred  creature  interminable  and 
stifling.  Perspiration  dripped  from  white  faces  as 
the  operatives  stood  listlessly  at  their  looms,  or 
the  children  straggled  back  and  forth  in  the  narrow 
lanes  between  the  frames,  tending  the  endlessly  turn 
ing  spools. 

The  Hardwick  Mill  had  both  spinning  and  weaving 
departments.  Administrative  ability  is  as  much  a 
native  gift  as  the  poet's  voice  or  the  actor's  grace,  and 
the  managers  of  any  large  business  are  always  on  the 
lookout  for  it.  Before  Johnnie  Consadine  had  been 
two  months  in  the  factory  she  was  given  charge  of  a 
spinning  room.  But  the  dignity  of  the  new  position  - 
even  the  increase  of  pay  —  had  a  cloud  upon  it.  She 
was  beginning  to  understand  the  enmity  there  is 


iiz   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

between  the  soulless  factory  and  the  human  tide  that 
feeds  its  life.  She  knew  now  that  the  tasks  of  the 
little  spinners,  which  seemed  less  than  child's  play, 
were  deadly  in  their  monotony,  their  long  indoor  hours, 
and  the  vibrant  clamour  amid  which  they  were  per 
formed.  Her  own  vigorous  young  frame  resisted  val 
iantly;  yet  the  Saturday  half-holiday,  the  Sunday  of 
rest,  could  scarcely  renew  her  for  the  exorbitant  hours 
of  mechanical  toil. 

As  she  left  the  mill  those  sultry  evenings,  with  the 
heat  mists  still  tremulous  over  the  valley  and  heat 
lightnings  bickering  in  the  west,  she  went  with  a  lagging 
step  up  the  village  street,  not  looking,  as  had  been 
her  wont,  first  toward  the  far  blue  mountains,  and  then 
at  the  glorious  state  of  the  big  valley.  The  houses  of 
the  operatives  were  set  up  haphazard  and  the  village 
was  denied  all  beauty.  Most  of  the  yards  were 
unfenced,  and  here  and  there  a  row  of  shanties  would 
be  crowded  so  close  together  that  speech  in  one  could 
be  heard  in  the  other. 

"And  then  if  any  ketchin'  disease  does  break  out,  like 
the  dipthery  did  last  year,"  Mavity  Bence  said  one 
evening  as  she  walked  home  with  Johnnie,  "hit's 
sartin  shore  to  go  through  'em  like  it  would  go  through 
a  family." 

Johnnie  looked  curiously  at  the  dirty  yards  with  their 
debris  of  lard  buckets  and  tin  cans.  Space  —  air, 
earth  and  sky  —  was  cheap  and  plentiful  in  the  moun 
tains.  It  seemed  strange  to  be  sparing  of  it,  down 
here  where  people  were  so  rich. 


A  BIT  OF  METAL  113 

"What  makes  'em  build  so  close,  Aunt  Mavity?" 
she  asked. 

"Hit's  the  Company,"  returned  Mrs.  Bence  lifelessly. 
"They  don't  want  to  spend  any  more  than  they  have 
to  for  land.  Besides  they  want  everything  to  be  nigh 
to  the  mill.  Lord  —  hit  don't  make  no  differ.  Only 
when  a  fire  starts  in  a  row  of  'em  hit  cleans  up  the 
Company's  property  same  as  it  does  the  plunder  of 
the  folks  that  lives  in  'em.  You  just  got  to  be  thankful 
if  there  don't  chance  to  be  one  or  more  baby  children 
locked  up  in  the  houses  and  burned  along  with  the 
other  stuff.  I've  knowed  that  to  happen  more  than 
oncet." 

Johnnie's  face  whitened. 

"  Miss  Lydia  says  she's  going  to  persuade  her  brother- 
in-law  to  furnish  a  kindergarten  and  a  day  nursery  for 
the  Hardwick  Mill,"  she  offered  hastily.  "They  have 
one  at  some  other  mill  down  in  Georgia,  and  she  says 
it's  fine  the  way  they  take  care  of  the  children  while 
the  mothers  are  at  work  in  the  factory." 

"Uh-uh,"  put  in  Mandy  Meacham  slowly,  speaking 
over  the  shoulders  of  the  two,  "but  I'd  a  heap  ruther 
take  care  of  my  own  child  —  ef  I  had  one.  An'  ef 
the  mills  can  afford  to  pay  for  it  the  one  way,  they 
can  afford  to  pay  for  it  t'other  way.  Miss  Liddy's 
schemes  is  all  for  the  showin'  off  of  the  swells  and  the 
rich  folks.  I  reckon  that,  with  her,  hit'll  end  in  talk, 
anyhow  —  hit  always  does." 

"Aunt  Mavity,"  pursued  Johnnie  timidly,  "do 
you  reckon  the  water's  unhealthy  down  here  in  Cotton- 


ii4   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

ville  ?  Looks  like  all  the  children  in  the  mill  have  the 
same  white,  puny  look.  I  thought  maybe  the  water 
didn't  agree  with  them." 

Mavity  Bence  laughed  out  mirthlessly.  "  The  water !" 
she  echoed  in  a  tone  of  amused  contempt.  "  Johnnie, 
you're  mighty  smart  about  some  things;  cain'tyou  see 
that  a  cotton  mill  is  bound  to  either  kill  or  cripple  a 
child  ?  Them  that  don't  die,  sort  o'  drags  along  and 
grows  up  to  be  mis'able,  undersized,  sickly  somebodies. 
Hit's  true  the  Hardwick  Mill  won't  run  night  turn; 
hit's  true  they  show  mo'  good  will  about  hirin'  older 
children;  but  if  you  can  make  a  cotton  mill  healthy 
for  young-uns,  you  can  do  more  than  God  A'mighty." 
She  wiped  her  eyes  furtively. 

"  Lou  was  well  growed  before  ever  she  went  in  the 
mill.  I  know  in  reason  hit  never  hurt  her.  I  mean 
these  here  mammies  that  I  see  puttin'  little  tricks  to 
work  that  ort  to  be  runnin'  out  o'  doors  gettin'  their 
strength  and  growth  —  well,  po'  souls,  I  reckon  they 
don't  know  no  better,  God  forgive  'em!" 

"  But  if  they  got  sick  or  anything,  there's  always  the 
hospital,"  Johnnie  spoke  up  hopefully,  as  they  passed 
the  clean  white  building  standing  high  on  its  green  slope. 

"The  hospital!"  echoed  Mandy,  with  a  half-terrified 
glance  over  her  shoulder.  "Yes,  ef  you  want  to  be 
shipped  out  of  town  in  a  box  for  the  student  doctors 
to  cut  up,  I  reckon  the  hospital  is  a  good  place.  It's 
just  like  everything  else  the  rich  swells  does  —  it's 
for  their  profit,  not  for  our'n.  They  was  a  lot  of  big 
talk  when  they  built  that  thar  hospital,  and  every  one 


A  BIT  OF  METAL  115 

of  us  was  axed  to  give  something  for  beds  and  such. 
We  was  told  that  if  we  got  hurt  in  the  mill  we  could  go 
thar  free,  and  if  we  fell  sick  they'd  doctor  us  for  little 
or  nothin'.  They  can  afford  it  —  considerin'  the 
prices  they  git  for  dead  bodies,  I  reckon." 

"Now,  Mandy,  you  don't  believe  any  such  as  that," 
remonstrated  Johnnie,  with  a  half-smile. 

"Believe  it  —  I  know  it  to  be  true!"  Mandy  stuck 
to  her  point  stubbornly.  "Thar  was  Lura  Dawson; 
her  folks  was  comin'  down  to  git  the  body  and  bury 
hit,  and  when  they  got  here  the  hospital  folks  couldn't 
tell  'em  whar  to  look  —  no,  they  couldn't.  Atlas 
Dawson  'lows  he'll  git  even  with  'em  if  it  takes  him 
the  rest  of  his  natural  life.  His  wife  was  a  Bushares 
and  her  whole  tribe  is  out  agin  the  hospital  folks  and 
the  mill  folks  down  here.  I  reckon  you  live  too  far 
up  in  the  mountains  to  hear  the  talk,  but  some  of 
these  swells  had  better  look  out." 

As  the  long,  hot  days  followed  each  other,  Johnnie 
noticed  how  Mandy  failed.  Her  hand  was  forever 
at  her  side,  where  she  had  a  stitch-like  pain,  that  she 
called  "a  jumpin'  misery."  Even  broad,  seasoned 
Mavity  Bence  grew  pallid  and  gaunt.  Only  Pap 
Himes  thrived.  His  trouble  was  rheumatism,  and 
the  hot  days  were  his  best.  Of  evenings  he  would  sit 
on  the  porch  in  his  broad,  rush-bottomed  chair,  the 
big  yellow  cat  on  his  knees,  and  smoke  his  pipe  and, 
if  he  cared  to  do  so,  banter  unkindly  with  the  girls  on 
the  steps.  Early  in  the  season  as  it  was,  the  upstairs 
rooms  were  terribly  hot;  and  sometimes  the  poor  crea- 


u6   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

tures  sat  or  lay  on  the  porch  till  well  past  midnight. 
Across  the  gulch  were  songs  and  the  strumming  of 
banjos  or  guitars,  where  the  young  fellows  at  the 
inn  waked  late. 

The  rich  people  on  top  of  the  hill  were  beginning  to 
make  their  preparations  to  flit  to  the  seashore  or 
mountains.  Lydia  Sessions  left  for  two  weeks,  promis 
ing  to  return  in  June,  and  the  Uplift  work  drooped, 
neglected.  There  seems  to  be  an  understanding  that 
people  do  not  need  uplifting  so  much  during  hot  weather. 
Gray  Stoddard  was  faithful  in  the  matter  of  books. 
He  carried  them  to  Lydia  Sessions  and  discussed  with 
that  young  lady  a  complete  course  of  reading  for  Johnnie. 
Lydia  was  in  the  position  of  one  taking  bad  medicine 
for  good  results.  She  could  not  but  delight  in  any 
enterprise  which  brought  Stoddard  intimately  to  her, 
yet  the  discussion  of  Johnnie  Consadine,  the  admira 
tion  he  expressed  for  the  girl's  character  and  work, 
were  as  so  much  quinine. 

Johnnie  herself  was  dumb  and  abashed,  now,  in  his 
presence.  She  sought  vainly  for  the  poise  and  com 
posure  which  were  her  natural  birthright  in  most  of 
the  situations  of  life.  Yet  her  perturbation  was  not  that 
of  distress.  The  sight  of  him,  the  sound  of  his  voice, 
even  if  he  were  not  saying  good  morning  to  her,  would 
cheer  her  heart  for  one  whole,  long,  hot  day:  and  if 
he  spoke  to  her,  if  he  looked  at  her,  nothing  could  touch 
her  with  sadness  for  hours  afterward.  She  asked  no 
questions  why  this  was  so;  she  met  it  with  a  sort  of 
desperate  bravery,  accepting  the  joy,  refusing  to  see 


A  BIT  OF  METAL  117 

the  sorrow  there  might  be  in  it.  And  she  robbed  herself 
of  necessary  sleep  to  read  Stoddard's  books,  to  study 
them,  to  wring  from  them  the  last  precious  crumb 
of  help  or  information  that  they  might  have  for  her. 
The  mountain  dweller  is  a  mental  creature.  An 
environment  which  builds  lean,  vigorous  bodies,  is  apt 
to  nourish  keen,  alert  minds.  Johnnie  crowded  into 
her  few  months  of  night  reading  a  world  of  ripening 
culture. 

Ever  since  the  Sunday  morning  of  the  automobile 
ride,  Shade  Buckheath  had  been  making  elaborate 
pretense  of  having  forgotten  that  such  a  person  as 
Johnnie  Consadine  existed.  If  he  saw  her  approaching, 
he  turned  his  back;  and  when  forced  to  recognize  her, 
barely  growled  some  unintelligible  greeting.  Then 
one  evening  she  came  suddenly  into  the  machine  room. 
She  walked  slowly  down  the  long  aisle  between  pieces 
of  \vhirring  machinery,  carrying  all  eyes  with  her. 
It  was  an  offence  to  Buckheath  to  note  how  the  other 
young  fellows  turned  from  their  tasks  to  look  after 
her.  She  had  no  business  down  here  where  the  men 
were.  That  was  just  like  a  fool  girl,  always  running 
after  -  — .  She  paused  at  his  bench. 

"Shade,"  she  said,  bending  close  so  that  he  might 
hear  the  words,  "  I  got  leave  to  come  in  and  ask  you  to 
make  me  a  thing  like  this  —  see  ?"  showing  a  pattern 
for  a  peculiarly  slotted  strip  of  metal. 

Buckheath  returned  to  the  surly  indifference  of 
demeanour  which  was  natural  to  him.  Yet  he  smiled 
covertly  as  he  examined  the  drawing  she  had  made  of 


ii8   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

the  thing  she  wanted.  He  divined  in  this  movement 
of  Johnnie's  but  an  attempt  to  approach  himself, 
and,  as  she  explained  with  some  particularity,  he  paid 
more  attention  to  the  girl  than  to  her  words. 

"  I  want  a  big  enough  hole  here  to  put  a  bolt 
through,"  she  repeated.  "  Shade  —  do  you  understand  ? 
You're  not  listening  to  one  word  I  say." 

Buckheath  turned  and  grinned  broadly  at  her. 

"What's  the  use  of  this  foolishness,  Johnnie?" 
he  inquired,  clinking  the  strips  of  metal  between  his 
fingers.  "Looks  like  you  and  me  could  find  a  chance 
to  visit  without  going  to  so  much  trouble." 

Johnnie  opened  her  gray  eyes  wide  and  stared  at 
him. 

"Foolishness!"  she  echoed.  "Mr.  Stoddard  didn't 
call  it  foolishness  when  I  named  it  to  him.  He  said 
I  was  to  have  anything  I  wanted  made,  and  that  one 
of  the  loom-fixers  could  attend  to  it." 

"Mr.  Stoddard — what's  he  got  to  do  with  it?" 
demanded  Shade. 

"He  hasn't  anything;  but  that  I  spoke  to  him  about 
it,  and  he  told  me  to  try  any  plan  I  wanted  to." 

"  Well,  the  less  you  talk  to  the  bosses  —  a  girl  like  you, 
working  here  in  the  mill  —  the  better  name  you'll 
bear,"  Shade  told  her,  twisting  the  drawing  in  his 
hands  and  regarding  her  from  under  lowered  brows. 

"Don't  tear  that,"  cautioned  Johnnie  impatiently. 
"  I  have  to  speak  to  some  of  the  people  in  authority 
sometimes  —  the  same  as  you  do.  What's  the  matter 
with  you,  Shade  Buckheath?" 


A  BIT  OF   METAL  119 

"There's  nothing  the  matter  with  me,"  Buckheath 
declared  wagging  his  head  portentously,  and  avoid 
ing  her  eye.  Then  the  wrath,  the  sense  of  personal 
injury,  which  had  been  simmering  in  him  ever  since 
he  saw  her  sitting  beside  Stoddard  in  the  young  mill 
owner's  car,  broke  forth.  "When  I  see  a  girl  riding  in 
an  automobile  with  one  of  these  young  bosses,"  he 
growled,  close  to  her  ear,  "  I  know  what  to  think  - 
and  so  does  everybody  else." 

It  was  out.  He  had  said  it  at  last.  He  stared  at 
her  fiercely.  The  red  dyed  her  face  and  neck  at  his 
words  and  look.  For  a  desperate  moment  she  took 
counsel  with  herself.  Then  she  lifted  her  head  and 
looked  squarely  in  Buckheath's  face. 

"Oh,  that's  what  has  been  the  matter  with  you  all 
this  time,  is  it?"  she  inquired.  "Well,  I'm  glad  you 
spoke  and  relieved  your  mind."  Then  she  went  on 
evenly,  "Mr.  Stoddard  had  been  up  in  the  mountains 
that  Sunday  to  get  a  flower  that  he  wanted,  like  the  one 
you  stepped  on  and  broke  the  day  I  came  down.  I 
was  up  there  and  showed  him  where  the  things  grow. 
Then  it  rained,  and  he  brought  me  down  in  his  car. 
That's  all  there  was  to  it." 

"  Mighty  poor  excuse,"  grunted  Shade,  turning  his 
shoulder  to  her. 

"It's  not  an  excuse  at  all,"  said  Johnnie.  "You 
have  no  right  to  ask  excuses  for  what  I  do  —  or  explana 
tions,  either,  for  that  matter.  I've  told  you  the  truth 
about  it  because  we  were  old  friends  and  you  named  it 
to  me;  but  I'm  sorry  now  that  I  spoke  at  all.  Give 


no   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

me  that  drawing  and  those  patterns  back.  Some  of 
the  other  loom-fixers  can  make  what  I  want." 

"You  get  mad  quick,  don't  you  ?"  Buckheath  asked, 
turning  to  her  with  a  half-taunting,  half-relenting 
smile  on  his  face.  "Red-headed  people  always  do." 

"No,  I'm  not  mad,"  Johnnie  told  him,  as  she 
had  told  him  long  ago.  "But  I'll  thank  you  not  to 
name  Mr.  Stoddard  to  me  again.  If  I  haven't  the 
right  to  speak  to  anybody  I  need  to,  why  it  certainly 
isn't  your  place  to  tell  me  of  it." 

"Go  'long,"  said  Buckheath,  surlily;  "I'll  fix  'em 
for  you."  And  without  another  word  the  girl  left 
him. 

After  Johnnie  was  gone,  Buckheath  chewed  for 
some  time  the  bitter  cud  of  chagrin.  He  was  wholly 
mistaken,  then,  in  the  object  of  her  visit  to  the  mechan 
ical  department  ?  Yet  he  was  a  cool-headed  fellow, 
always  alert  for  that  which  might  bring  him  gain. 
Pushing,  aspiring,  he  subscribed  for  and  faithfully 
studied  a  mechanics'  journal  which  continually  urged 
upon  its  readers  the  profit  of  patenting  small  improve 
ments  on  machinery  already  in  use.  Indeed  everybody, 
these  days,  in  the  factories,  is  on  the  lookout  for  patent- 
able  improvements.  Why  might  not  Johnnie  have 
stumbled  on  to  something  worth  while  ?  That  Passmore 
and  Consadine  tribe  were  all  smart  fools.  He  made  the 
slotted  strips  she  wanted,  and  delivered  them  to  her 
the  next  day  with  civil  words.  When,  after  she  had 
them  in  use  on  the  spinning  jennies  upstairs  for  a  week, 
she  came  down  bringing  them  for  certain  minute 


A  BIT  OF  METAL  121 

alterations,  his  attitude  was  one  of  friendly  help 
fulness. 

"You  say  you  use  'em  on  the  frames?  What  for? 
How  do  they  work?"  he  asked  her,  examining  the 
little  contrivance  lingeringly. 

"They're  working  pretty  well,"  she  told  him,  "even 
the  way  they  are  —  a  good  deal  too  long,  and  with 
that  slot  not  cut  deep  enough,  I'm  right  proud  of  myself 
when  I  look  at  them.  Any  boy  or  girl  tending  a  frame 
can  go  to  the  end  of  it  and  see  if  anything's  the  matter 
without  walking  plumb  down.  When  you  get  them 
fixed  the  way  I  want  them,  I  tell  you  they'll  be  fine." 

The  next  afternoon  saw  Shade  Buckheath  in  the 
spooling  room,  watching  the  operation  of  Johnnie 
Consadine's  simple  device  for  notifying  the  frame- 
tender  if  a  thread  fouled  or  broke. 

"Let  me  take  'em  all  down  to  the  basement,"  he 
said  finally  when  he  had  studied  them  from  every 
point  of  view  for  fifteen  minutes.  "They  ain't  as 
well  polished  as  I'd  like  to  have  'em  and  I  think  they 
might  be  a  little  longer  in  the  shank.  There  ought  to 
be  a  ring  of  babbit  metal  around  that  slot,  too  —  I 
reckon  I  could  get  it  in  Watauga.  If  you'll  let  me 
take  'em  now,  I'll  fix  'em  up  for  you  soon  as  I  can, 
so  that  they'll  do  fine." 

Johnnie  remonstrated,  half-heartedly,  as  he  gathered 
the  crude  little  invention  from  the  frames;  but  his 
proposition  wore  a  plausible  face,  and  she  suffered  him 
to  take  them. 

"They  ain't  but  five  here,"  he  said  to  her  sharply. 


122   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

"I  know  I  made  you  six.  Where's  the  other  one?" 
He  looked  so  startled,  he  spoke  so  anxiously,  that  she 
laughed. 

"I  think  that  must  be  the  one  I  carried  home,"  she 
said  carelessly.  "I  had  a  file,  and  was  trying  to  fix 
it  myself  one  evening,  and  I  reckon  I  never  brought 
it  back." 

"  Johnnie,"  said  Shade,  coming  close,  and  speaking 
in  a  low  confidential  tone  that  was  almost  affectionate, 
"if  I  was  you  I  wouldn't  name  this  business  to  anybody. 
Wait  till  we  get  it  all  fixed  right,"  he  pursued,  as  he 
saw  the  rising  wonder  in  her  face.  "No  need  to  tell 
every  feller  all  you  know  —  so  he'll  be  jest  as  smart 
as  you  are.  Ain't  that  so  ?  And  you  git  me  that 
other  strip.  I  don't  want  it  layin'  round  for  somebody 
to  get  hold  of  and  —  you  find  me  that  other  strip. 
Hunt  it  up,  won't  you?" 

"Well,  you  sure  talk  curious  to-day!"  Johnnie  told 
him.  "I  don't  see  anything  to  be  ashamed  of  in  my 
loving  to  fool  with  machinery,  if  I  am  a  girl.  But 
I'll  get  you  the  strip,  if  I  can  find  it.  I'm  mighty 
proud  of  being  a  room  boss,  and  I  aim  to  make  my 
room  the  best  one  in  the  mill.  Shade,  did  you  know 
that  I  get  eight  dollars  a  week  ?  I've  been  sending 
money  home  to  mother,  and  I've  got  a  room  to  myself 
down  at  Pap  Himes's.  And  Mr.  Sessions  says  they'll 
raise  me  again  soon.  I  wanted  'em  to  see  this  thing 
working  well." 

"Look  here!"  broke  in  Shade  swiftly;  "don't  you 
say  anything  to  the  bosses  about  this"  -he  shook 


A  BIT  OF  METAL  123 

the  strips  in  his  hand  —  "not  till  I've  had  a  chance 
to  talk  to  you  again.  You  know  I'm  your  friend,  don't 
you  Johnnie  ?" 

"I  reckon  so,"  returned  truthful  Johnnie,  with 
unflattering  moderation.  "You  get  me  those  things 
done  as  quick  as  you  can,  please,  Shade." 

After  this  the  matter  dropped.  Two  or  three  times 
Johnnie  reminded  Shade  of  his  promise  to  bring  the 
little  strips  back,  and  always  he  had  an  excuse  ready 
for  her:  he  had  been  very  busy  —  the  metal  he  wanted 
was  out  of  stock  —  he  would  fix  them  for  her  just  as 
soon  as  he  could.  With  every  interview  his  manner 
toward  herself  grew  kinder  —  more  distinctly  that 
of  a  lover. 

The  loom-fixers  and  mechanics,  belonging,  be  it 
remembered,  to  a  trades-union,  were  out  of  all  the 
mills  by  five  o'clock.  It  was  a  significant  point  for 
any  student  of  economic  conditions  to  note  these 
strapping  young  males  sitting  at  ease  upon  the  porches 
of  their  homes  or  boarding  houses,  when  the  sweating, 
fagged  women  weavers  and  childish  spinners  trooped 
across  the  bridges  an  hour  after.  Johnnie  was 
surprised,  therefore,  one  evening,  nearly  two  weeks 
later,  to  find  Shade  waiting  for  her  at  the  door  of 
the  mill. 

"I  wish't  you'd  walk  a  piece  up  the  Gap  road  with 
me,  I  want  to  have  speech  with  you,"  the  young  fellow 
told  her. 

"I  can't  go  far;  I  'most  always  try  to  be  home  in 
time  to  help  Aunt  Mavity  put  supper  on  the  table,  or 


i24   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

anyway  to  wash  up  the  dishes  for  her,"  the  girl  replied 
to  him. 

"All  right,"  agreed  Buckheath  briefly.  "  Wait  here  a 
minute  and  let  me  get  some  things  I  want  to  take  along." 

He  stopped  at  a  little  shed  back  of  the  offices,  some 
times  called  the  garage  because  Stoddard's  car  stood 
in  it.  Johnnie  dropped  down  on  a  box  at  the  door 
and  the  young  fellow  went  inside  and  began  searching 
the  pockets  of  a  coat  hanging  on  a  peg.  He  spoke 
over  his  shoulder  to  her. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you  here  lately  since  you 
got  your  raise  ?  'Pears  like  you  won't  look  at  a  body." 

"Haven't  I  seemed  friendly?"  Johnnie  returned, 
with  a  deprecating  smile.  "I  reckon  I'm  just  tired. 
Seems  like  I'm  tired  every  minute  of  the  day  —  and 
I  couldn't  tell  you  why.  I  sure  don't  have  anything 
hard  to  do.  I  think  sometimes  I  need  the  good  hard 
work  I  used  to  have  back  in  the  mountains  to  get 
rested  on." 

She  laughed  up  at  him,  and  Buckheath's  emotional 
nature  answered  with  a  dull  anger,  which  was  his  only 
reply  to  her  attraction. 

"I  was  going  to  invite  you  to  go  to  a  dance  in  at 
Watauga,  Saturday  night,"  he  said  sullenly;  "but 
I  reckon  if  you're  tired  all  the  time,  you  don't  want 
to  go." 

He  had  hoped  and  expected  that  she  would  say  she 
was  not  too  tired  to  go  anywhere  that  he  wished  her  to. 
His  disappointment  was  disproportionate  when  she 
sighingly  agreed: 


A  BIT  OF  METAL  125 

"Yes,  I  reckon  I  hadn't  better  go  to  any  dances.  I 
wouldn't  for  the  world  break  down  at  my  work,  when 
I've  just  begun  to  earn  so  much,  and  am  sending 
money  home  to  mother." 

Inside  the  offices  Lydia  Sessions  stood  near  her 
brother's  desk.  She  had  gone  down,  as  she  sometimes 
did,  to  take  him  home  in  the  carriage. 

"Oh,  here  you  are,  Miss  Sessions,"  said  Gray  Stod- 
dard  coming  in.  "I've  brought  those  books  for 
Johnnie.  There  are  a  lot  of  them  here  for  her  to  make 
selection  from.  As  you  are  driving,  perhaps  you 
wouldn't  mind  letting  me  set  them  in  the  carriage, 
then  I  won't  go  up  past  your  house." 

Miss  Sessions  glanced  uneasily  at  the  volumes  he 
carried. 

"  Do  you  think  it's  wise  to  give  an  ignorant,  untrained 
girl  like  that  the  choice  of  her  own  reading?"  she  said 
at  length. 

Stoddard  laughed. 

"  It's  as  far  as  my  wisdom  goes,"  he  replied  promptly. 
"  I  would  as  soon  think  of  getting  up  a  form  of  prayer 
for  a  fellow  creature  as  laying  out  a  course  of  reading 
for  him." 

"Well,  then,"  suggested  Miss  Sessions,  "why  not 
let  her  take  up  a  Chatauqua  course  ?  I'm  sure  many 
of  them  are  excellent.  She  would  be  properly  guided, 
and  —  and  encroach  less  on  your  time." 

"My  time!"  echoed  Stoddard.  "Never  mind 
that  feature.  I'm  immensely  interested.  It's  fascina- 


126   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

ting  to  watch  the  development  of  so  fine  a  mind  which 
has  lain  almost  entirely  fallow  to  the  culture  of  schools. 
I  quite  enjoy  looking  out  a  bunch  of  books  for  her,  and 
watching  to  see  which  one  will  most  appeal  to  her. 
Her  instinct  has  proved  wholly  trustworthy  so  far. 
Indeed,  if  it  didn't  seem  exaggerated,  I  should  say  her 
taste  was  faultless." 

Miss  Sessions  flushed  and  set  her  lips  together. 

"Faultless,"  she  repeated,  with  an  attempt  at  a 
smile.  "I  fancy  Johnnie  finds  out  what  you  admire 
most,  and  makes  favourites  of  your  favourites." 

Stoddard  looked  a  bit  blank  for  an  instant.     Then, 

"Well  —  perhaps  —  she  does,"  he  allowed,  hesita 
tingly.  His  usual  tolerant  smile  held  a  hint  of  indul 
gent  tenderness,  and  there  was  a  vibration  in  his  voice 
which  struck  to  Lydia  Sessions's  heart  like  a  knife. 

"No,  you  are  mistaken,"  he  added  after  a  moment's 
reflection.  "You  don't  realize  how  little  I've  talked 
to  the  child  about  books  —  or  anything  else,  for  that 
matter.  It  does  chance  that  her  taste  is  mine  in  very 
many  cases;  but  you  underrate  our  protege  when  you 
speak  of  her  as  ignorant  and  uncultured.  She  knows 
a  good  deal  more  about  some  things  than  either  of  us. 
It  is  her  fund  of  nature  lore  that  makes  Thoreau  and 
White  of  Selborne  appeal  to  her.  Now  I  love  them 
because  I  know  so  little  about  what  they  write  of." 

Lydia  Sessions  instantly  fastened  upon  the  one  point. 
She  protested  almost  anxiously. 

"  But  surely  you  would  not  call  her  cultured  —  a 
factory  girl  who  has  lived  in  a  hut  in  the  mountains  all 


A  BIT  OF  METAL  127 

her  life  ?  She  is  trying  hard,  I  admit;  but  her  speech 
is  —  well,  it  certainly  is  rather  uncivilized." 

Stoddard  looked  as  though  he  might  debate  that 
matter  a  bit.  Then  he  questioned,  instead: 

"Did  you  ever  get  a  letter  from  her?  She  doesn't 
carry  her  quaint  little  archaisms  of  pronunciation  and 
wording  into  her  writing.  Her  letters  are  delicious." 

Miss  Sessions  turned  hastily  to  the  window  and 
looked  out,  apparently  to  observe  whether  her  brother 
was  ready  to  leave  or  not.  Johnnie  Consadine's 
letters  —  her  letters.  What  —  when  —  ?  Of  course 
she  could  not  baldly  question  him  in  such  a  matter; 
and  the  simple  explanation  of  a  little  note  of  thanks 
with  a  returned  book,  or  the  leaf  which  reported 
impressions  from  its  reading  tucked  in  between  the 
pages  occurred  to  her  perturbed  mind. 

"You  quite  astonish  me,"  she  said  finally.  "Well 
-  that  is  good  hearing.  Mr.  Stoddard,"  with  sud 
den  decision,  "  don't  you  believe  that  it  would  be  well 
worth  while,  in  view  of  all  this,  to  raise  the  money  and 
send  John  Consadine  away  to  a  good  school  ?  There 
are  several  fine  ones  in  New  England  where  she  might 
partially  work  her  way;  and  really,  from  what  you  say, 
it  seems  to  me  she's  worthy  of  such  a  chance." 

Stoddard  glanced  at  her  in  surprise. 

"Why,  Miss  Sessions,  doesn't  this  look  like  going 
squarely  back  on  your  most  cherished  theories  ?  If 
it's  only  to  bestow  a  little  money,  and  send  her  away 
to  some  half-charity  school,  what  becomes  of  your 
argument  that  people  who  have  had  advantages  should 


i28   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

give  of  themselves  and  their  comradeship  to  those 
they  wish  to  help  ?  "  There  was  a  boyish  eagerness  in 
his  manner;  his  changeful  gray-brown  eyes  were 
alight;  he  came  close  and  laid  a  hand  on  her  arm  - 
quite  an  unusual  demonstration  with  Gray  Stoddard. 
"You  mustn't  discourage  me,"  he  said  winningly. 
"I'm  such  a  hopeful  disciple.  I've  never  enjoyed 
anything  more  in  my  life  than  this  enterprise  you  and 
I  have  undertaken  together,  providing  the  right  food 
for  so  bright  and  so  responsive  a  mind." 

Miss  Lydia  looked  at  him  in  a  sort  of  despair. 

"Yes — oh,  yes.  I  quite  understand  that,"  she 
agreed  almost  mechanically.  "  I  don't  mean  to  go 
back  on  my  principles.  But  what  John  needs  is  a 
good,  sound  education  from  the  beginning.  Don't 
you  think  so  ?" 

"No,"  said  Stoddard  promptly.  "Indeed  I  do  not. 
Development  must  come  from  within.  To  give  it  a 
chance  —  to  lend  it  stimulus  —  that's  all  a  friend  can 
do.  A  ready-made  education  plastered  on  the  outside 
cultivates  nobody.  Moreover,  Johnnie  is  in  no  crying 
need  of  mere  schooling.  You  don't  seem  to  know  how 
well  provided  she  has  been  in  that  respect.  But  the 
thing  that  settles  the  matter  is  that  she  would  not 
accept  any  such  charitable  arrangement.  Unless  you're 
tired  of  our  present  method,  I  vote  to  continue  it." 

Lydia  Sessions  had  been  for  some  moments  watch 
ing  Johnnie  Consadine  who  sat  on  her  box  at  the  door 
of  the  little  garage.  She  had  refrained  from  mention 
ing  this  fact  to  her  companion;  but  now  Shade  Buck- 


A  BIT  OF  METAL  129 

heath  stepped  out  to  join  Johnnie,  and  instantly  Lydia 
turned  and  motioned  Stoddard  to  her. 

"Look  there,"  she  whispered.  "Don't  they  make 
a  perfect  couple  ?  You  and  I  may  do  what  we  choose 
about  cultivating  the  girl's  mind  —  she'll  marry  a 
man  of  her  own  class,  and  there  it  will  end." 

"Why  should  you  say  that?"  asked  Stoddard 
abruptly.  "Those  two  do  not  belong  to  the  same 
class.  They " 

"Oh,  Mr.  Stoddard!  They  grew  up  side  by  side; 
they  went  to  school  together,  and  I  imagine  were 
sweethearts  long  before  they  came  to  Cottonville." 

"Do  you  think  that  makes  them  of  the  same  class  ?" 
asked  Stoddard  impatiently.  "I  should  say  the  pre 
sumption  was  still  greater  the  other  way.  I  was  not 
alluding  to  social  classes." 

"You're  so  odd,"  murmured  Lydia  Sessions.  "These 
mountaineers  are  all  alike." 

The  village  road  was  a  smother  of  white  dust;  the 
weeds  beside  it  drooped  powdered  heads;  evil  odours 
reeked  through  the  little  place;  but  when  Shade  and 
Johnnie  had  passed  its  confines,  the  air  from  the 
mountains  greeted  them  sweetly;  the  dusty  white  road 
gave  place  to  springy  leaf-mould,  mixed  with  tiny, 
sharp  stones.  A  young  moon  rode  low  in  the  west. 
The  tank-a-tank  of  cowbells  sounded  from  homing 
animals.  Up  in  the  dusky  Gap,  whip-poor-wills  were 
beginning  to  call. 

"I'm  glad  I  came,"  said  Johnnie,  pushing  the  hair 


130   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

off  her  hot  forehead.  She  was  speaking  to  herself, 
aware  that  Buckheath  paid  little  attention,  but  walked 
in  silence  a  step  ahead,  twisting  a  little  branch  of 
sassafras  in  his  fingers.  The  spicy  odour  of  the  bark 
was  afterward  associated  in  Johnnie's  mind  with  what 
he  had  then  to  say. 

''Johnnie,"  he  began,  facing  around  and  barring 
her  way,  when  they  were  finally  alone  together 
between  the  trees,  "do  you  remember  the  last  time 
you  and  me  was  on  this  piece  of  road  here — do  you  ?" 

He  had  intended  to  remind  her  of  the  evening  she 
came  to  Cottonville:  but  instead,  recollection  built 
for  her  once  more  the  picture  of  that  slope  bathed  in 
Sabbath  sunshine.  There  was  the  fork  where  the 
Hardwick  carriage  had  turned  off;  to  this  side  went 
Shade  and  his  fellows,  with  Mandy  and  the  girls  follow 
ing;  and  down  the  middle  of  the  road  she  herself  came, 
seated  in  the  car  beside  Stoddard. 

For  a  moment  memory  choked  and  blinded  Johnnie. 
She  could  neither  see  the  path  before  them,  nor  find 
the  voice  to  answer  her  questioner.  The  bleak  pathos 
of  her  situation  came  home  to  her,  and  tears  of  rare 
self-pity  filled  her  eyes.  Why  was  it  a  disgrace  that 
Stoddard  should  treat  her  kindly  ?  Why  must  she 
be  ashamed  of  her  feeling  for  him  ?  Shade's  voice 
broke  in  harshly. 

"  Do  you  remember  ?     You  ain't  forgot,  have  you  ? 
Ever  since  that  time  I've  intended  to  speak  to  you  - 
to  tell  you  - 

"Well,  you  needn't  do  it,"  she  interrupted  him  pas>- 


A  BIT  OF  METAL  131 

sionatefy.  "  I  won't  hear  a  word  against  Mr.  Stoddard, 
if  that's  what  you're  aiming  at." 

Buckheath  fell  back  a  pace  and  stared  with  angry 
eyes. 

"Stoddard  —  Gray  Stoddard?"  he  repeated. 
"What's  a  swell  like  that  got  to  do  with  you  and  me, 
Johnnie  Consadine  ?  You  want  to  let  Gray  Stoddard 
and  his  kind  alone  —  yes,  and  make  them  let  you 
alone,  if  you  and  me  are  going  to  marry." 

It  was  Johnnie's  turn  to  stare. 

"If  we're  going  to  marry!"  she  echoed  blankly  — 
"going  to  marry!"  The  girl  had  had  her  lovers. 
Despite  hard  work  and  the  stigma  of  belonging  to  the 
borrowing  Passmore  family,  Johnnie  had  commanded 
the  homage  of  more  than  one  heart.  She  was  not 
without  a  healthy  young  woman's  relish  fcr  this  sort 
of  admiration;  but  Shade  Buckheath's  proposal  came 
with  so  little  grace,  in  such  almost  sinister  form,  that 
she  scarcely  recognized  it. 

"  Yes,  if  we're  going  to  wed,"  reiterated  Buckheath 
sullenly.  "I'm  willin'  to  have  you." 

Johnnie's  tense,  almost  tragic  manner  relaxed. 
She  laughed  suddenly. 

"I  didn't  know  you  was  joking,  Shade,"  she  said 
good-humouredly.  "  I  took  you  to  be  in  earnest. 
You'll  have  to  excuse  me." 

"I  am  in  earnest,"  Buckheath  told  her,  almost 
fiercely.  "I  reckon  I'm  a  fool;  but  I  want  you.  Any 
day"  -he  spoke  with  a  curious,  half-savage  reluc 
tance  -  "  any  day  you'll  say  the  word,  I'll  take  you." 


132   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

His  eyes,  like  his  voice,  were  resentful,  yet  eager. 
He  took  off  his  hat  and  wiped  the  perspiration  from 
his  brow,  looking  away  from  her  now,  toward  the  road 
by  which  they  had  climbed. 

Johnnie  regarded  him  through  her  thick  eyelashes, 
the  smile  still  lingering  bright  in  her  eyes.  After 
all,  it  was  only  a  rather  unusual  kind  of  sweethearting, 
and  not  a  case  of  it  to  touch  her  feelings. 

"  I'm  mighty  sorry,"  she  said  soberly,  "  but  I  ain't 
aimin'  to  wed  any  man,  fixed  like  I  am.  Mother  and 
the  children  have  to  be  looked  after,  and  I  can't  ask  a 
man  to  do  for  'em,  so  I  have  it  to  do  myself." 

"Of  course  I  can't  take  your  mother  and  the  chil 
dren,"  Buckheath  objected  querulously,  as  though  she 
had  asked  him  to  do  so.  "  But  you  I'll  take;  and  you'd 
do  well  to  think  it  over.  You  won't  get  such  a  chance 
soon  again,  and  I'm  apt  to  change  my  mind  if 
you  put  on  airs  with  me  this  way." 

Johnnie  shook  her  head. 

"I  know  it's  a  fine  chance,  Shade,"  she  said  in  the 
kindest  tone,  "but  I'm  hoping  you  will  change  your 
mind,  and  that  soon;  for  it's  just  like  I  tell  you." 

She  turned  with  evident  intention  of  going  back  and 
terminating  their  interview.  Buckheath  stepped  beside 
her  in  helpless  fury.  He  knew  she  would  have  other 
opportunities,  and  better.  He  was  aware  how  futile 
was  this  threat  of  withdrawing  his  proposition.  Hot, 
tired,  angry,  the  dust  of  the  way  prickling  on  his  face 
and  neck,  he  was  persistently  conscious  of  a  letter  in 
the  pocket  of  his  striped  shirt,  over  his  heavily  beating 


A  BIT  OF  METAL  133 

heart,  warm  and  moist  like  the  shirt  itself,  with  the 
sweat  of  his  body.  Good  Lord!  That  letter  which  had 
come  from  Washington  this  morning  informing  him 
that  the  device  this  girl  had  invented  was  patentable, 
filled  her  hands  with  gold.  It  was  necessary  that  he 
should  have  control  of  her,  and  at  once.  He  put  from 
him  the  knowledge  of  how  her  charm  wrought  upon 
him  —  bound  him  the  faster  every  time  he  spoke  to 
her.  Cold,  calculating,  sluggishly  selfish,  he  had  not 
reckoned  with  her  radiant  personality,  nor  had  the 
instinct  to  know  that,  approached  closely,  it  must  inevit 
ably  light  in  him  unwelcome  and  inextinguishable 
fires. 

:' Johnnie,"  he    said    finally,  "you    ain't    saying    no 
to   me,  are  you  ?     You  take  time  to  think  it  over  - 
but    not     so      very     long  --  I'll      name     it     to     you 
again." 

"  Please  don't,  Shade,"  remonstrated  the  girl,  walking 
on  fast,  despite  the  oppressive  heat  of  the  evening. 
"I  wish  you  wouldn't  speak  of  it  to  me  any  more; 
and  I  can't  go  walking  with  you  this  way.  I  have 
obliged  to  help  Aunt  Mavity;  and  every  minute  of  time 
I  get  from  that,  and  my  work,  I'm  putting  in  on  my 
books  and  reading." 

She  stepped  ahead  of  him  now,  and  Buckheath 
regarded  her  back  with  sullen,  sombre  eyes.  What 
was  he  to  do  ?  How  come  nearer  her  when  she  thus 
held  herself  aloof  ? 

''Johnnie  Consadine!"  The  girl  checked  her  steps 
a  bit  at  a  new  sound  in  his  voice.  "  I'll  tell  you  just  one 


i34   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

thing,  and  you'd  better  never  forget  it,  neither.  I  ain't 
no  fool.  I  know  mighty  well  an'  good  your  reason  for 
treating  me  this-a-way.  Your  reason's  got  a  name. 
Hit's  called  Mr.  Gray  Stoddard.  You  behave  yo'self 
an'  listen  to  reason,  or  I'll  get  even  with  him  for  it. 
Damn  him  — I'll  fix  him!" 


CHAPTER  X 

THE    SANDALS    OF   JOY 

GOME  in  here,  Johnnie,"  Mavity  Bence  called 
one  day,  as  Johnnie  was  passing  a  strange 
little  cluttered  cubbyhole  under  the  garret 
stairs  and  out  over  the  roof  of  the  lean-to  kitchen. 
It  was  a  hybrid  apartment,  between  a  large  closet  and 
a  small  room;  one  four-paned  window  gave  scant  light 
and  ventilation;  all  the  broken  or  disused  plunder 
about  the  house  was  pitched  into  it,  and  in  the  middle 
sat  a  tumbled  bed.  It  was  the  woman's  sleeping  place 
and  her  dead  daughter  had  shared  it  with  her  during 
her  lifetime.  Johnnie  stopped  at  the  door  with  a  hand 
on  each  side  of  its  frame. 

"Reddin'  up  things,  Aunt  Mavity?"  she  asked, 
adding,  "If  I  had  time  I'd  come  in  and  help  you." 

"I  was  just  puttin'  away  what  I've  got  left  that 
belonged  to  Lou,"  said  the  woman,  sitting  suddenly 
down  on  the  bed  and  gazing  up  into  the  bright  face 
above  her  with  a  sort  of  appeal.  Johnnie  noticed 
then  that  Mrs.  Bence  had  a  pair  of  cheap  slippers  in 
her  lap.  It  came  back  vividly  to  the  girl  how  the  news 
papers  had  said  that  Louvania  Bence  had  taken  off 
her  slippers  and  left  them  on  the  bridge,  that  she 
might  climb  the  netting  more  easily  to  throw  herself 

135 


136   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

into  the  water.  The  mother  stared  down  at  these, 
dry-eyed. 

"She  never  had  'em  on  but  the  once,"  Mavity  Bence 
breathed.  "And  I — and  I  r'ared  out  on  her  for 
buyin'  of  'em.  I  said  that  with  Pap  so  old  and  all,  we 
hadn't  money  to  spend  for  slippers.  Lord  God!" 
she  shivered  -  "  We  had  to  find  money  for  the  under 
taker,  when  he  come  to  lay  her  out." 

She  turned  to  Johnnie  feverishly,  like  a  thing  that 
writhes  on  the  rack  and  seeks  an  easier  position. 

"I  had  the  best  for  her  then  —  I  jest  would  do  it  - 
there   was   white   shoes   and   stockin's,   and   a   reg'lar 
shroud  like  they  make  at  Watauga;  we  never  put  a 
stitch  on  her  that  she'd  wore  —  hit  was  all  new-bought. 

O 

For  once  I  said  my  say  to  Pap,  and  made  him  take 
money  out  of  the  bank  to  do  it.  He's  got  some  in  thar 
for  to  bury  all  of  us  —  he  says  —  but  he  never  wanted 
to  use  any  of  it  for  Lou." 

Johnnie  came  in  and  sat  down  on  the  bed  beside 
her  hostess.  She  laid  a  loving  hand  over  Mavity's  that 
held  the  slippers. 

"What  pretty  little  feet  she  must  have  had,"  she 
said  softly. 

"Didn't  she?"  echoed  the  mother,  with  a  tremulous 
half-smile.  "I  couldn't  more'n  get  these  here  on  my 
hand,  but  they  was  a  loose  fit  for  her.  They're  as 
good  as  new.  Johnnie,  ef  you  ever  get  a  invite  to  a 
dance  I'll  lend  'em  to  you.  Hit'd  pleasure  me  to  think 
some  gal's  feet  was  dancin'  in  them  thar  slippers. 
Lou,  she  never  learned  to  dance  —  looked  like  she 


THE  SANDALS   OF  JOY  137 

could  never  find  time."  Louvania,  be  it  remembered 
had  found  time  in  which  to  die. 

So  Johnnie  thanked  poor  Mavity,  and  hurried  away, 
because  the  warning  whistle  was  blowing. 

The  very  next  Wednesday  Miss  Sessions  gave  a 
dance  to  the  members  of  her  Uplift  Club.  These 
gaieties  were  rather  singular  and  ingenious  affairs, 
sterilized  dances,  Mrs.  Hexter  irreverently  dubbed 
them.  Miss  Lydia  did  not  invite  the  young  men 
employed  about  the  mill,  not  having  as  yet  undertaken 
their  uplifting;  and  feeling  quite  inadequate  to  cope 
with  the  relations  between  them  and  the  mill  girls, 
which  would  be  something  vital  and  genuine,  and  as 
such,  quite  foreign  —  if  not  inimical  —  to  her  enter 
prise.  She  contented  herself  with  bringing  in  a  few 
well-trained  young  males  of  her  own  class,  who  were 
expected  to  be  attentive  to  the  girls,  treating  them 
as  equals,  just  as  Miss  Lydia  did.  For  the  rest,  the 
members  were  encouraged  to  dance  with  each  other, 
and  find  such  joy  as  they  might  in  the  supper,  and  the 
fact  that  Miss  Sessions  paid  for  a  half-day's  work  for 
them  on  the  morrow,  that  they  might  lie  late  in  bed 
after  a  night's  pleasuring. 

Johnnie  Consadine  had  begun  to  earn  money  in  such 
quantities  as  seemed  to  her  economic  experience 
extremely  large.  She  paid  her  board,  sent  a  little  home 
to  her  mother,  and  had  still  wherewith  to  buy  a  frock 
for  the  dance.  She  treated  herself  to  a  trolley  ride  in 
to  Watauga  to  select  this  dress,  going  on  the  Saturday 
half-holiday  which  the  mills  gave  their  workers,  lest 


138   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

the  labour  laws  regulating  the  hours  per  week  which 
women  and  children  may  be  employed  be  infringed 
upon.  There  was  grave  debate  in  Johnnie's  mind 
as  to  what  she  should  buy.  Colours  would  fade  - 
in  cheap  goods,  anyhow  —  white  soiled  easily.  "  But 
then  I  could  wash  and  iron  it  myself  any  evening  I 
wanted  to  wear  it,"  she  argued  to  Mandy  Meacham, 
who  accompanied  her. 

"I'd  be  proud  to  do  it  for  you,"  returned  Mandy, 
loyally.  Ordinarily  the  Meacham  woman  was  selfish; 
but  having  found  an  object  upon  which  she  could 
centre  her  thin,  watery  affections,  she  proceeded  to  be 
selfish  for  Johnnie  instead  of  toward  her,  a  spiritual 
juggle  which  some  mothers  perform  in  regard  to  their 
children. 

The  store  reached,  Johnnie  showed  good  judgment 
in  her  choice.  There  was  a  great  sale  on  at  the  biggest 
shopping  place  in  Watauga,  and  the  ready-made 
summer  wear  was  to  be  had  at  bargain  rates.  Not 
for  her  were  the  flaring,  coarse,  scant  garments  whose 
lack  of  seemliness  was  supposed  to  be  atoned  for  by  a 
profusion  of  cheap,  sleazy  trimming.  After  long  and 
somewhat  painful  inspection,  since  most  of  the  things 
she  wanted  were  hopelessly  beyond  her,  Johnnie 
carried  home  a  fairly  fine  white  lawn,  simply  tucked, 
and  fitting  to  perfection. 

"But  you've  got  a  shape  that  sets  off  anything,"  said 
the  saleswoman,  carelessly  dealing  out  the  compliments 
she  kept  in  stock  with  her  goods  for  purchasers. 

"You're   mighty   right   she   has,"   rejoined   Mandy, 


THE  SANDALS   OF  JOY  139 

sharply,  as  who  should  say,  "My  back  is  not  a  true 
expression  of  my  desires  concerning  backs.  Look  at 
this  other  —  she  has  the  spine  of  my  dreams." 

The  saleswoman  chewed  gum  while  they  waited  for 
change  and  parcel,  and  in  the  interval  she  had  time 
to  inspect  Johnnie  more  closely. 

"Working  in  the  cotton  mill,  are  you?"  she  asked 
as  she  sorted  up  her  stock,  jingling  the  bracelets  on  her 
wrists,  and  patting  into  shape  her  big,  frizzy  pompa 
dour.  "That's  awful  hard  work,  ain't  it?  I  should 
think  a  girl  like  you  would  try  for  a  place  in  a  store. 
I'll  bet  you  could  get  one,"  she  added  encouragingly, 
as  she  handed  the  parcel  across  the  counter.  But 
already  Johnnie  knew  that  the  spurious  elegance  of  this 
young  person's  appearance  was  not  what  she  wished 
to  emulate. 

The  night  of  the  dance  Johnnie  adjusted  her  costume 
with  the  nice  skill  and  care  which  seem  native  to  so 
many  of  the  daughters  of  America.  Mandy,  dressing 
at  the  same  bureau,  scraggled  the  parting  of  her  own 
hair,  furtively  watching  the  deft  arranging  of  Johnnie's. 

"Let  me  do  it  for  you,  and  part  it  straight,"  Johnnie 
remonstrated. 

"Aw,  hit'll  never  be  seen  on  a  gallopin'  hoss," 
returned  Mandy  carelessly.  "  Everybody'll  be  so  tuck 
up  a-watchin'  you  that  they  won't  have  time  to  notice 
is  my  hair  parted  straight,  nohow." 

"  But  you're  not  a  galloping  horse,"  objected  Johnnie, 
laughing  and  clutching  the  comb  away  from  her. 
"You've  got  mighty  pretty  hair,  Mandy,  if  you'd  give 


140   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

it  a  chance.  Why,  it's  curly!  Let  me  do  it  up  right 
for  you  once." 

So  the  thin,  graying  ringlets  were  loosened  around 
the  meagre  forehead,  and  indeed  Mandy's  appearance 
was  considerably  ameliorated. 

"There  —  isn't  that  nice  ?"  inquired  Johnnie,  turn 
ing  her  companion  around  to  the  glass  and  forcing  her 
to  gaze  in  it  —  a  thing  Mandy  always  instinctively 
avoided. 

"I  reckon  I've  looked  worse,"  agreed  the  tall  woman 
unenthusiastically;  "but  Miss  Lyddy  ain't  carin'  to 
have  ye  fix  up  much.  I  get  sort  of  feisty  and  want 
to  dav-il  her  by  makin'  you  look  pretty.  Wish't  you 
would  wear  that  breas'-pin  o'  mine,  an'  them  rings  an' 
beads  I  borried  from  Lizzie  for  ye.  You  might  just 
as  well,  and  then  nobody'd  know  you  from  one  o'  the 
swells." 

Johnnie  shook  her  fair  head  decidedly.  Talk  of 
borrowing  things  brought  a  reminiscent  flush  to  her 
cheek. 

"I'm  just  as  much  obliged,"  she  said  sweetly.  "I'll 
wear  nothing  but  what's  my  own.  After  a  while  I'll 
be  able  to  afford  jewellery,  and  that'll  be  the  time  for 
me  to  put  it  on." 

Presently  came  Mavity  Bence  bringing  the  treasured 
footwear. 

"I  expect  they'll  be  a  little  tight  for  me,"  Johnnie 
remarked  somewhat  doubtfully;  the  slippers,  though 
cheap,  ill-cut  things,  looked  so  much  smaller  than  her 
heavy,  country-made  shoes.  But  they  went  readily 


THE   SANDALS   OF  JOY  141 

upon  the  arched  feet  of  the  mountain  girl,  Mandy  and 
the  poor  mother  looking  on  with  deep  interest. 

"  I  wish't  Lou  was  here  to  see  you  in  'em,"  whispered 
Mavity  Bence.  "She  wouldn't  grudge  'em  to  you  one 
minute.  Lord,  how  pretty  you  do  look,  Johnnie 
Consadine!  You're  as  sightly  as  that  thar  big  wax 
doll  down  at  the  Company  store.  I  wish't  Lou  could 
see  you." 

The  dance  was  being  given  in  the  big  hall  above  a 
store,  which  Miss  Lydia  hired  for  these  functions  of 
her  Uplift  Club.  The  room  was  half-heartedly  decor 
ated  in  a  hybrid  fashion.  Miss  Lydia  had  sent  down 
a  rose-bowl  of  flowers;  and  the  girls,  being  encouraged 
to  use  their  own  taste,  put  up  some  flags  left  over  from 
last  Fourth  of  July.  When  Johnnie  and  Mandy 
Meacham  —  strangely  assorted  pair  —  entered  the  long 
room,  festivities  were  already  in  progress;  Negro 
fiddlers  were  reeling  off  dance  music,  and  Miss  Lydia 
was  trying  to  teach  some  of  her  club  members  the 
two-step.  Her  younger  brother,  Hartley  Sessions,  was 
gravely  piloting  a  girl  down  the  room  in  what  was  sup 
posed  to  be  that  popular  dance,  and  two  young  men 
from  Watauga,  for  whom  he  had  vouched,  stood  ready 
for  Miss  Sessions  to  furnish  them  with  partners,  when 
she  should  have  encouraged  her  learners  sufficiently 
to  make  the  attempt.  Round  the  walls  sat  the  other 
girls,  and  to  Johnnie's  memory  came  those  words  of 
Mandy's,  "You  dance  — if  you  can." 

Johnnie   Consadine    certainly   could    dance.     Many 
a  time  back  in  the  mountains  she  had  walked  five  miles 


i42   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

after  a  hard  day's  work  to  get  to  a  dance  that  some  one 
of  her  mates  was  giving,  tramping  home  in  the  dawn 
and  doing  without  sleep  for  that  twenty-four  hours. 
The  music  seemed  somehow  to  get  into  her  muscles, 
so  that  she  swayed  and  moved  exactly  in  time  to  it. 

"That's  the  two-step,"  she  murmured  to  her  partner. 
"I  never  tried  it,  but  I've  seen  'em  dance  it  at  the  hotel 
down  at  Chalybeate  Springs.  I  can  waltz  a  little;  but 
I  love  an  old-fashioned  quadrille  the  best  —  it  seems 
more  friendly." 

Gray  Stoddard  was  talking  to  an  older  woman  who 
had  come  with  her  daughter  —  a  thin-bodied,  deep- 
eyed  woman  of  forty,  perhaps,  with  a  half-sad,  tolerant 
smile,  and  slow,  racy  speech.  A  sudden  touch  on  his 
shoulder  roused  him,  as  one  of  the  young  men  from 
town  leaned  over  and  asked  him  excitedly: 

"Who's  that  girl  down  at  the  other  end  of  the  room, 
Gray  ?  —  the  stunning  blonde  that  just  came  in  ? 
She's  got  one  of  the  mill  girls  with  her." 

Gray  looked,  and  laughed  a  little.  Somehow 
the  adjectives  applied  to  Johnnie  did  not  please 
him. 

"Both  of  them  work  in  the  mill,"  he  said  briefly. 
"The  one  you  mean  is  Johnnie  Consadine.  She's 
a  remarkable  girl  in  more  ways  than  merely  in 
appearance." 

"Well,  take  me  down  there  and  give  me  an  intro 
duction,"  urged  the  youth  from  Watauga,  in  a  tone  of 
animation  which  was  barred  from  Uplift  affairs-. 

"All  right,"  agreed  Gray,  getting  to  his  feet  with  a 


THE   SANDALS   OF  JOY  143 

twinkle  in  his  eye.  "I  suppose  you  want  to  meet  the 
tall  one.  L  I've  got  an  engagement  for  the  first  dance  with 
Miss  Consadine  myself." 

"Say,"  ejaculated  the  other,  drawing  back,  "that 
isn't  fair.  Miss  Sessions,"  he  appealed  to  their  hostess 
as  umpire.  "  Here's  Gray  got  the  belle  of  the  ball 
mortgaged  for  all  her  dances,  and  won't  even  give  me 
an  introduction.  You  do  the  square  thing  by  me, 
won't  you  ?" 

Lydia  Sessions  had  got  her  neophites  safely  launched, 
and  they  were  making  a  more  or  less  tempestuous 
progress  across  the  floor.  She  turned  to  the  two  young 
men  a  flushed,  smiling  countenance.  In  the  tempered 
light  and  the  extremely  favouring  costume  of  the  hour, 
she  looked  almost  pretty. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked  graciously.  'The  belle 
of  the  ball?  I  don't  know  quite  who  that  is.  Oh!" 
with  a  slight  drop  in  her  tone  and  the  temperature  of 
her  expression;  "do  you  mean  John  Consadine? 
Really,  how  well  she  is  looking  to-night!" 

"Isn't  she!"  blundered  the  Watauga  man  with  ill- 
timed  enthusiasm.  "  I  call  her  a  regular  beauty,  and 
such  an  interesting-looking  creature.  What  is  she 
trying  to  do  ?  Good  Lord,  she's  going  to  attempt  the 
two-step  with  that  Eiffel  tower  she  brought  along!" 

These  frivolous  remarks,  suited  well  enough  to  the 
ordinary  ballroom,  did  not  please  Miss  Lydia  for 
an  Uplift  dance. 

"The  girl  with  John  is  one  in  whom  I  take  a  very 
deep  interest,"  she  said  with  a  touch  of  primness. 


i44   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

11  John  Consadine  is  young,  and  exceptionally  strong 
and    healthy.     But    Amanda    Meacham    has  —  er  - 
disabilities  and  afflictions  that  make  it  difficult  for  her 
to  get  along.     She  is  a  very  worthy  case." 

The  young  man  from  Watauga,  who  had  not  regarded 
Johnnie  as  a  case  at  all,  but  had  considered  her  purely 
as  an  exceptionally  attractive  young  woman,  looked 
a  trifle  bewildered.  Then  Gray  took  his  arm  and  led 
him  across  to  where  the  attempt  at  two-stepping  had 
broken  up  in  laughing  disorder.  With  that  absolutely 
natural  manner  which  Miss  Sessions  could  never  quite 
achieve,  good  as  her  intentions  were,  he  performed  the 
introduction,  and  then  said  pleasantly: 

"  Mr.  Baker  wants  to  ask  you  to  dance,  Miss  Johnnie. 
I'll  carry  on  Miss  Amanda's  teaching,  or  we'll  sit  down 
here  and  talk  if  she'd  rather." 

"No  more  two-steppin'  for  me,"  agreed  Miss 
Meacham,  seating  herself  decidedly.  "I'll  take  my 
steps  one  at  a  time  from  this  on.  I'd  ruther  watch 
Johnnie  dance,  anyhow;  but  she  would  have  me  try 
for  myself." 

Johnnie  and  the  young  fellow  from  Watauga  were 
off  now.  They  halted  once  or  twice,  evidently  for 
some  further  instructions,  as  Johnnie  got  the  step  and 
time,  and  then  moved  away  smoothly.  Gray  took 
the  seat  beside  Mandy. 

"Ain't  she  a  wonder?"  inquired  the  big  woman, 
staring  fondly  after  the  fluttering  white  skirts. 

"She  is  indeed,"  agreed  Gray  quietly.  And  then, 
Mandy  being  thus  launched  on  the  congenial  theme 


THE   SANDALS   OF  JOY  145 

-  the  one  theme  upon  which  she  was  ever  loquacious 
—  out  came  the  story  of  the  purchase  of  the  dress,  the 
compliments  of  the  saleswoman,  the  refusal  of  the 
borrowed  jewellery. 

"Johnnie's  quare  —  she  is  that  —  I'll  never]  deny 
it;  but  I  cain't  no  more  help  likin'  her  than  as  if  she 
was  my  own  born  sister." 

"That's  because  she  is  fond  of  you,  too,"  sug 
gested  Gray,  thinking  of  the  girl's  laborious  attempts 
to  teach  poor  Mandy  to  dance. 

"Do  you  reckon  she  is?"  asked  the  tall  woman, 
flushing.  "Looks  like  Johnnie  Consadine  loves  every 
livin'  thing  on  the  top  side  of  this  earth.  I  ain't  never 
seen  the  human  yet  that  she  ain't  got  a  good  word  for. 
But  I  don't  know  as  she  cares  'specially  'bout  me." 

Stoddard  could  not  refuse  the  assurance  for  which 
Mandy  so  naively  angled. 

"You  wouldn't  be  so  fond  of  her  if  she  wasn't  fond 
of  you,"  he  asserted  confidently. 

"Mebbe  I  wouldn't,"  Mandy  debated;  "but  I  don't 
know.  Let  Johnnie  put  them  two  eyes  o'  hern  on 
you,  and  laugh  in  your  face,  and  you  feel  just  like  you'd 
follow  her  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  —  or  I  know  I  do. 
Why,  she  done  up  my  hair  this  evening  and"  -the 
voice  sank  to  a  half-shamed  whisper-  "she  said  it 
was  pretty." 

Gray  turned  and  looked  into  the  flushed,  tremulous 
face  beside  him  with  a  sudden  tightening  in  his  throat. 
How  cruel  humanity  is  when  it  beholds  only  the 
grotesque  in  the  Mandys  of  this  world.  Her  hair 


146   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

was  pretty  —  and  Johnnie  had  the  eyes  of  love  to 
see  it. 

He  stared  down  the  long,  lighted  room  with  unseeing 
gaze.  Old  Andrew  MacPherson's  counsel  that  he  let 
Johnnie  Consadine  alone  appealed  to  him  at  that 
moment  as  cruel  good  sense.  He  was  recalled  from  his 
musings  by  Mandy's  voice. 

"Oh,  look  thar!"  whispered  his  companion  excitedly. 
4  The  other  town  feller  has  asked  for  a  knock-down  to 
Johnnie,  too.  Look  at  him  passin'  his  bows  with  her 
just  like  she  was  one  of  the  swells ! " 

Stoddard  looked.  Charlie  Conroy  was  relieving 
Baker  of  his  partner.  Johnnie  had  evidently  been 
asked  if  she  was  tired,  for  they  saw  her  laughingly  shake 
her  head,  and  the  new  couple  finished  what  was  left 
of  the  two-step  and  seated  themselves  a  moment  at  the 
other  side  of  the  room  to  wait  for  the  next  dance  to 
begin. 

"These  affairs  are  great  fun,  aren't  they?"  inquired 
Conroy,  fanning  his  late  partner  vigorously. 

"I  love  to  dance  better  than  anything  else  in  the 
world,  I  believe,"  returned  Johnnie  dreamily. 

"Oh,  a  dance  —  I  should  suppose  so.  You  move 
as  though  you  enjoyed  it;  but  I  mean  a  performance 
like  this.  The  girls  are  great  fun,  don't  you  think  ? 
But  then  you  wouldn't  get  quite  our  point  of  view  on 
that." 

He  glanced  again  at  her  dress;  it  was  plain  and 
simple,  but  good  style  and  becoming.  She  wore  no 
jewellery,  but  lots  of  girls  were  rather  affecting  that 


THE   SANDALS  OF  JOY  147 

now,  especially  the  athletic  type  to  which  this  young 
beauty  seemed  to  belong.  Surely  he  wa  ot  mistaken 
in  guessing  her  to  be  one  of  Miss  Sessions's  friends. 
Of  course  he  was  not.  She  had  dressed  herself  in 
this  simple  fashion  for  a  mill-girl's  dance,  that  she 
might  not  embarrass  the  working  people  who  attended. 
Yes,  by  George!  that  was  it,  and  it  was  a  long  ways 
better  taste  than  the  frocks  Miss  Sessions  and  Mrs. 
Hexter  were  wearing. 

Johnnie  considered  his  last  remark,  her  gaze  still 
following  the  movements  of  the  Negro  fiddler  at  the 
head  of  the  room.  Understanding  him  to  mean  that, 
being  a  mill-hand  herself,  she  could  not  get  a  detached 
view  of  the  matter,  and  thus  see  the  humour  of  this 
attempt  to  make  society  women  of  working-girls, 
Johnnie  was  yet  not  affronted.  Her  clear  eyes  came 
back  from  watching  Uncle  Zeke's  manoeuvres  and 
looked  frankly  into  the  eyes  of  the  man  beside  her. 

"I  reckon  we  are  right  funny,"  she  assented.  "But 
of  course,  as  you  say,  I  wouldn't  see  that  as  quick  as 
you  would.  Sometimes  I  have  to  laugh  a  little  at 
Mandy  —  the  girl  I  was  dancing  with  first  this  evening 
—  but  —  but  she's  so  good-natured  it  never  hurts  her 
feelings.  I  don't  mind  being  laughed  at  myself,  either." 

"Laughed  at  —  you?"  inquired  Conroy,  throwing 
an  immense  amount  of  expression  into  his  glance.  He 
was  rather  a  lady's  man,  and  fancied  he  had  made 
pretty  fair  headway  with  this  beautiful  girl  whom  he 
still  supposed  to  be  of  the  circle  of  factory  owners. 
"Oh, you  mean  your  work  among  the  mill  girls  here. 


148   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

Indeed,  I  should  not  laugh  at  that.  I  think  it's  noble 
for  those  more  fortunate  to  stretch  a  hand  to  help  their 
brothers  and  sisters  that  haven't  so  good  a  chance. 
That's  what  brought  me  over  here  to-night.  Gray 
Stoddard  explained  the  plan  to  me.  He  doesn't  seem 
to  think  much  of  it  —  but  then,  Gray's  a  socialist  at 
heart,  and  you  know  those  socialists  never  believe  in 
organized  charity.  I  tell  him  he's  an  anarchist." 

"Mr.  Stoddard  is  a  mighty  good  man,"  agreed 
Johnnie  with  sudden  pensiveness.  "  They've  all  been 
mighty  good  to  me  ever  since  I've  been  here;  but  I 
believe  Mr.  Stoddard  has  done  more  for  me  than  any 
one  else.  He  not  only  lends  me  books,  but  he  takes 
time  to  explain  things  to  me." 

Conroy  smiled  covertly  at  the  simplicity  of  this 
young  beauty.  He  debated  in  his  mind  whether  indeed 
it  was  not  an  affected  simplicity.  Of  course  Gray  was 
devoting  himself  to  her  and  lending  her  books;  of 
course  he  would  be  glad  to  assume  the  position  of 
mentor  to  a  girl  who  bade  fair  to  be  such  a  pronounced 
social  success,  and  who  was  herself  so  charming. 

"How  long  have  you  been  in  Cottonville,  Miss 
Consadine?"  he  asked.  "Do  tell  me  who  you  are 
visiting  —  or  are  you  visiting  here  ?" 

"Oh,  no,"  Johnnie  corrected  him.  "I  believe  you 
haven't  understood  from  the  first  that  I'm  one  of  the 
mill  girls.  I  board  at  —  well,  everybody  calls  it  Pap 
Himes's  boarding-house." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence;  but  Conroy  managed 
not  to  look  quite  as  deeply  surprised  as  he  felt. 


THE  SANDALS  OF  JOY  149 

"I  — of  course  I  knew  it,"  he  began  at  length,  after 
having  sorted  and  discarded  half  a  dozen  explanations. 
"There  —  why,  there's  our  dance!"  And  he  stood 
up  in  relief,  as  the  fiddlers  began  on  an  old-fashioned 
quadrille. 

Johnnie  responded  with  alacrity,  not  aware  of  having 
either  risen  or  fallen  in  her  companion's  estimation. 
She  danced  through  the  set  with  smiling  enjoyment, 
prompting  her  partner,  who  knew  only  modern  dances. 
On  his  part  Conroy  studied  her  covertly,  trying  to 
adjust  his  slow  mind  to  this  astonishing  new  state  of 
things,  and  to  decide  what  a  man's  proper  attitude 
might  be  toward  such  a  girl.  In  the  end  he  found 
himself  with  no  conclusion. 

'They  say  they're  going  to  try  a  plain  waltz,"  he 
began  as  he  led  her  back  to  a  seat.  He  hesitated, 
glanced  about  him,  and  finally  placed  himself  uneasily 
in  the  chair  beside  her.  Good  Lord!  The  situation 
was  impossible.  What  should  he  say  if  anybody  - 
Gray  Stoddard,  for  instance  — chaffed  him  about  being 
smitten  in  this  quarter  ? 

"A  waltz  ?"  echoed  Johnnie  helpfully  when  he  did  not 

go  on.      "  I  believe  I  could  dance  that  —  I  tried  it  once." 

"Then    you'll    dance    it  with  me?"  Conroy  found 

himself  saying,  baldly,  awkwardly,  but  unable,  for  the 

life  of  him,  to  keep  the  eagerness  out  of  his  voice. 

Upon  the  instant  the  music  struck  up.  The  two 
rose  and  made  ready  for  the  dance;  Conroy  placing 
Johnnie  in  waltzing  position,  and  instructing  her 
solicitously. 


150   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

Gray  Stoddard  looking  on,  was  amazed  at  the  naif 
simple  jealousy  that  swept  over  him  at  the  sight.  She 
had  danced  with  Conroy  twice  already  —  he  ought 
to  be  more  considerate  than  to  bring  the  girl  into 
notice  that  way  —  a  chump  like  Charlie  Conroy,  what 
would  he  understand  of  such  a  nature  as  Johnnie  Con- 
sadine's  ?  Before  he  fully  realized  his  own  intentions, 
he  had  paused  in  front  of  the  two  and  was  speaking. 

"I  think  Miss  Johnnie  promised  me  a  dance  this 
evening.  I'll  have  to  go  back  to  the  office  in  twenty 
minutes,  and  —  I  hate  to  interrupt  you,  but  I  guess 
I'll  have  to  claim  my  own." 

He  became  suddenly  aware  that  Conroy  was  signal 
ling  him  across  Johnnie's  unconscious  head  with 
Masonic  twistings  of  the  features.  Stoddard  met  these 
recklessly  inconsiderate  grimacings  with  an  impassive 
stare,  then  looked  away. 

"  I  want  to  see  you  before  you  go,"  the  man  from 
Watauga  remarked,  as  he  reluctantly  resigned  his 
partner.  "  Don't  you  forget  that  there's  a  waltz 
coming  to  me,  Miss  Johnnie.  I'm  going  to  have  it, 
if  we  make  the  band  play  special  for  us  alone." 

Lydia  Sessions,  passing  on  the  arm  of  young  Baker, 
glanced  at  Johnnie,  star-eyed,  pink-cheeked  and 
smiling,  with  a  pair  of  tall  cavaliers  contending  for  her 
favours,  and  sucked  her  lips  in  to  that  thin,  sharp  line 
of  reprobation  lohnnie  knew  so  well.  Dismissing  her 
escort  graciously,  she  hurried  to  the  little  supper  room 
and  found  another  member  of  the  committee. 

"Come  here,  Mrs.  Hexter.      Just  look  at  that,  will 


THE  SANDALS  OF  JOY  151 

you?"  She  called  attention  in  a  carefully  suppressed, 
but  fairly  tragic  tone,  to  Stoddard  and  Johnnie  dan 
cing  together,  the  only  couple  on  the  floor.  "  None  of 
the  girls  know  how  to  waltz.  I  am  not  sure  that  it 
would  be  suitable  if  they  did.  When  I  came  past,  just 
now,  there  were  two  of  the  men  —  two  —  talking  to 
John  Consadine,  and  they  were  all  three  laughing.  I 
can't  think  how  it  is  that  girls  of  that  sort  manage  to 
stir  things  up  so  and  get  all  the  men  around  them." 

"Neither  can  I,"  said  Mrs.  Hexter  wickedly.  "If 
I  did  know  how,  I  believe  I'd  do  it  sometimes  myself. 
What  is  it  you  want  of  me,  Miss  Sessions  ?  I  must 
run  back  and  see  to  supper,  if  you  don't  need  me." 

"But  I  do,"  fretted  Lydia.  "I  want  your  help. 
This  waltzing  and  —  and  such  things  —  ought  to  be 
stopped." 

"All  right,"  rejoined  practical  Mrs.  Hexter.  "The 
quickest  way  to  do  it  is  to  stop  the  music." 

She  had  meant  the  speech  as  a  jeer,  but  literal- 
minded  Lydia  Sessions  welcomed  its  suggestion.  Hurry 
ing  down  the  long  room,  she  spoke  to  the  leader  of 
their  small  orchestra.  The  Negro  raised  to  her  a 
brown  face  full  of  astonishment.  His  fiddle-bow 
faltered  —  stopped.  He  turned  to  his  two  fellows 
and  gave  hasty  directions.  The  waltz  measure  died 
away,  and  a  quadrille  was  announced. 

"That  was  too  bad,"  said  Stoddard  as  they  came  to 
a  halt;  "you  were  just  getting  the  step  beautifully." 

The  girl  flashed  a  swift,  sweet  look  up  at  him.  "I 
do  love  to  dance,"  she  breathed. 


i52   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

''  John,  would  you  be  so  kind  as  to  come  and  help  in 
the  supper  room,"  Miss  Sessions's  hasty  tones  broke  in. 

She  was  leaning  on  Charlie  Conroy's  arm,  and 
when  she  departed  to  hide  Johnnie  safely  away  in  the 
depths  of  their  impromptu  kitchen,  it  left  the  two 
men  alone  together.  Conroy  promptly  fastened  upon 
the  other. 

Charlie  Conroy  was  a  young  man  who  had  made 
up  his  mind  to  get  on  socially.  Such  figures  are  rarer 
in  America  than  in  the  old  world.  Yet  Charlie 
Conroy  with  his  petty  ambitions  does  not  stand  entirely 
alone.  He  seriously  regarded  marriage  as  a  stepping- 
stone  to  a  circle  which  should  include  "  the  best  people." 
That  this  term  did  not  indicate  the  noblest  or  most 
selfless,  need  hardly  be  explained.  It  meant  only 
that  bit  of  froth  which  in  each  community  rides  high 
on  the  top  of  the  cup,  and  which,  in  Watauga,  was 
augmented  by  the  mill  owners  of  its  suburb  of  Cotton- 
ville.  Conroy  had  been  grateful  for  the  opportunity  to 
make  an  entry  into  this  circle  by  means  of  assisting  Miss 
Sessions  in  her  charitable  work.  That  lady  herself, 
as  sister-in-law  of  Jerome  Hardwick  and  a  descendant 
of  an  excellent  New  England  family,  he  regarded  with 
absolute  veneration,  quite  too  serious  and  profound 
for  anything  so  assured  as  mere  admiration. 

"I  tried  to  warn  you,"  he  began:  "but  you  were 
bound  to  get  stung." 

"I  beg  your  pardon?"  returned  Stoddard  in  that 
civil,  colourless  interrogation  which  should  always 
check  over-familiar  speech,  even  from  the  dullest. 


THE   SANDALS   OF  JOY  153 

But  Conrpy  was  not  sensitive. 

"That  big    red-headed    girl,  you  know,"   he  said, 
leaning  close  and  speaking  in  a  confidential  tone.   "I 
mistook  her  for  a  lady.    I  was  going  my  full  length  - 
telling  her  what  fun  the  mill  girls  were,  and  trying  to 
do  the  agreeable  —  when  I  found  out." 

o 

"  Found  out  what  ? "  inquired  Stoddard.  "  That  she 
was  not  a  lady  ?" 

"Aw,  come  off,"  laughed  Conroy.  "You  make  a 
joke  of  everything." 

"I  knew  that  she  was  a  weaver  in  the  mill,"  said 
Stoddard  quietly. 

Conroy  glanced  half  wistfully  over  his  shoulder  in 
the  direction  where  Johnnie  had  vanished. 

"She's  a  good-looker  all  right,"  he  said  thoughtfully. 
"  And  smile  —  when  that  girl  smiles  and  turns  those 
eyes  on  you  —  by  George!  if  she  was  taken  to  New 
York  and  put  through  one  of  those  finishing  schools 
she'd  make  a  sensation  in  the  swagger  set." 

Stoddard  nodded  gravely.  He  had  not  Conroy' s 
faith  in  the  fashionable  finishing  school;  but  what  he 
lacked  there,  he  made  up  in  conviction  as  to  Johnnie's 
deserts  and  abilities. 

'There  she  comes  now,"  said  Conroy,  as  the  door 
swung  open  to  admit  a  couple  of  girls  with  trays  of 
coffee  cups.  "She  walks  mighty  well.  I  wonder 
where  a  girl  like  that  learned  to  carry  herself  so  finely. 
By  George,  she  is  a  good-looker!  She's  got  'em  all 
beaten;  if  she  was  only  — .  Queer  about  the  accidents 
of  birth,  isn't  it  ?  Now,  what  would  you  say,  in  her 


154   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

heredity,  makes  a  common  girl  like  that  step  and  look 
like  a  queen  ?" 

Gray  Stoddard's  face  relaxed.  A  hint  of  his 
quizzical,  inscrutable  smile  was  upon  it  as  he  answered. 

"Nature  doesn't  make  mistakes.  I  don't  call 
Johnnie  Consadine  a  common  girl  —  it  strikes  me  that 
she  is  rather  uncommon." 

And  outside,  a  young  fellow  in  the  Sunday  suit  of  a 
workingman  was  walking  up  and  down,  staring  at 
the  lighted  windows,  catching  a  glimpse  now  and  again 
of  one  girl  or  another,  and  cursing  under  his  breath 
when  he  saw  Johnnie  Consadine. 

"Wouldn't  go  with  me  to  the  dance  at  Watauga  - 
oh   no!     But   she   ain't    too    tired    to   dance  with  the 
swells!"  he  muttered  to  the  darkness.     "And   I  can't 
get  a  word  nor  a  look  out  of  her.     Lord,  I  don't  know 
what  some  women  think!" 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE    NEW    BOARDER 

PAP  HIMES  was  sitting  on  the  front  gallery,  doz 
ing  in  the  westering  sunshine.  On  his  lap 
the  big,  yellow  cat  purred  and  blinked  with 
a  grotesque  resemblance  in  colouring  and  expression 
to  his  master.  It  was  Sunday  afternoon,  when  the 
toilers  were  all  out  of  the  mills,  and  most  of  them  lying 
on  their  beds  or  gone  in  to  Watauga.  The  village 
seemed  curiously  silent  and  deserted.  Through  the 
lazy  smoke  from  his  cob  pipe  Pap  noticed  Shade  Buck- 
heath  emerge  from  the  store  and  start  up  the  street. 
He  paid  no  more  attention  till  the  young  man's  voice 
at  the  porch  edge  roused  him  from  his  half-somnolence. 

"Evenin',  Pap,"  said  the  newcomer. 

"Good  evenin'  yourself,"  returned  Himes  with 
unusual  cordiality.  He  liked  men,  particularly  young, 
vigorous,  masterful  men.  "Come  in,  Buck,  an*  set 
a  spell.  Rest  your  hat  —  rest  your  hat." 

It  was  always  Pap's  custom  to  call  Shade  by  the 
first  syllable  of  his  second  name.  Buck  is  a  common 
by-name  for  boys  in  the  mountains,  and  it  could  not 
be  guessed  whether  the  old  man  used  it  as  a  diminu 
tive  of  the  surname,  or  whether  he  meant  merely  to 
nickname  this  favourite  of  his. 

155 


156   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

Shade  threw  himself  on  the  upper  step  of  the  porch 
and  searched  in  his  pockets  for  tobacco. 

"Room  for  another  boarder?"  he  asked  laconically. 

The  old  man  nodded. 

"I  reckon  there's  always  room,  ef  it's  asked  for," 
he  returned.  "Hit's  the  one  way  I  got  to  make  me 
a  livin',  with  Louvany  dyin'  off  and  Mavity  puny 
like  she  is.  I  have  obliged  to  keep  the  house  full, 
or  we'd  see  the  bottom  of  the  meal  sack." 

"All  right,"  agreed  Buckheath,  rising,  and  treating 
the  matter  as  terminated.  "I'll  move  my  things  in 
a-Monday." 

"Hold  on  thar  —  hold  on,  young  feller,"  objected 
Pap,  as  Shade  turned  away.  It  was  against  all  reason 
able  mountain  precedent  to  trade  so  quickly;  but 
indeed  Shade  had  merely  done  so  with  a  view  to  forcing 
through  what  he  well  knew  to  be  a  doubtful  proposition. 

"I'm  a-holding  on,"  he  observed  gruffly  at  last, 
as  the  other  continued  to  blink  at  him  with  red  eyes 
and  say  nothing.  "What's  the  matter  with  what  I 
said  ?  You  told  me  you  had  room  for  another  boarder 
and  I  named  it  that  I  was  comin'  to  board  at  your 
house.  Have  you  got  any  objections?" 

"Well,  yes,  I  have,"  Himes  opened  up  ponderously. 
"You  set  yourself  down  on  that  thar  step  and  we'll 
have  this  here  thing  out.  My  boardin'-house  is  for 
gals.  I  fixed  it  so  when  I  come  here.  There  ain't 
scarcely  a  rowdy  feller  in  Cottonville  that  hain't  at 
one  time  or  another  had  the  notion  he'd  board  with 
Pap  Himes;  but  I've  always  kep'  a  respectable  house, 


THE   NEW  BOARDER  157 

and  I  always  aim  to.  I  am  a  old  man,  and  I  bear 
a  good  name,  and  I'm  the  only  man  in  this  house,  and 
I  aim  to  stay  so.  Now,  sir,  there's  my  flatform; 
and  you  may  take  it  or  leave  it." 

Buckheath  glanced  angrily  and  contemptuously  into 
the  stupid,  fatuous  countenance  above  him;  he 
appeared  to  curb  with  some  difficulty  the  disposition 
to  retort  in  kind.  Instead,  he  returned,  sarcastically: 

"The  fellers  around  town  say  you  won't  keep  any 
thing  but  gals  because  nothin'  but  gals  would  put  up 
with  your  hectorin'  'em,  and  crowdin'  ten  in  a  room 
that  was  intended  for  four.  That's  what  folks  say; 
but  I've  got  a  reason  to  want  to  board  with  you,  Pap, 
and  I'll  pay  regular  prices  and  take  what  you  give  me." 

Himes  looked  a  little  astonished;  then  an  expres 
sion  of  distrust  stole  over  his  broad,  flat  face. 

"What's    bringin'    you    here?"  he    asked    bluntly. 

"  Johnnie  Consadine,"  returned  Shade,  without 
evasion  or  preamble.  "Before  I  left  the  mountains, 
Johnnie  an'  me  was  aimin'  to  wed.  Now  she's  got 
down  here,  and  doin'  better  than  ever  she  hoped  to, 
and  I  cain't  get  within  hand-reach  of  her." 

"Ye  cain't?"  inquired  Pap  scornfully.  "Why  any 
body  could  marry  that  gal  that  wanted  to.  But  Lord! 
anybody  can  marry  any  gal,  if  he's  got  the  sense  he 
was  born  with." 

"All  right,"  repeated  Shade  grimly.  "I  come  to 
you  to  know  could  I  get  board,  not  to  ask  advice.  I 
aim  to  marry  Johnnie  Consadine,  and  I  know  my 
own  business  —  air  you  goin'  to  board  me  ?" 


158   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

The  old  man  turned  this  speech  in  his  mind  for 
some  time. 

"Curious,"  he  muttered  to  himself,  "how  these  here 
young  fellers  will  get  petted  on  some  special  gal  and 
break  their  necks  to  have  her." 

"Shut  up — will  you?"  ejaculated  Buckheath,  so 
suddenly  and  fiercely  that  the  old  man  fairly  jumped, 
rousing  the  yellow  cat  to  remonstrative  squirmings. 
"I  tell  you  I  know  my  business,  and  I  ask  no  advice 
of  you  — will  you  board  me  ?" 

"I  cain't  do  it,  Buck,"  returned  Himes  definitely. 
"  I  ain't  got  such  a  room  to  give  you  by  yourself  as  you'd 
be  willin'  to  take  up  with;  and  nobody  comes  into 
my  room.  But  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do  for  you  - 
I'll  meal  you,  ef  that  will  help  your  case  any.  I'll 
meal  you  for  two  dollars  a  week,  and  throw  in  a  good 
word  with  Johnnie." 

Buckheath  received  the  conclusion  of  this  speech 
with  a  grin. 

"I  reckon  your  good  word  'd  have  a  lot  to  do  with 
Johnnie  Consadine,"  he  said  ironically,  as  he  picked 
up  his  hat  from  the  floor. 

"Uh-huh,"  nodded  Pap.  "She  sets  a  heap  of 
store  by  what  I  say.  All  of  'em  does;  but  Johnnie  in 
particular.  I  don't  know  but  what  you're  about  right. 
Ain't  no  sense  in  bein'  all  tore  up  concernin'  any  gal 
or  woman;  but  I  believe  if  I  was  pickin'  out  a  good 
worker  that  would  earn  her  way,  I'd  as  soon  pick  out 
Johnnie  Consadine  as  any  of  'em." 

And   having  thus   paid   his  ultimate  compliment  to 


THE   NEW  BOARDER  159 

Johnnie,  Himes  relapsed  into  intermittent  slumber  as 
Shade  moved  away  down  the  squalid,  dusty  street 
under  the  fierce  July  sun. 

Johnnie  greeted  the  new  boarder  with  a  reserve 
which  was  in  marked  contrast  to  the  reception  he  got 
from  the  other  girls.  Shade  Buckheath  was  a  hand 
some,  compelling  fellow,  and  a  good  match;  this 
Adamless  Eden  regarded  him  as  a  rival  in  glory  even 
to  Pap  himself.  When  supper  was  over  on  the  first 
night  of  his  arrival,  Shade  walked  out  on  the  porch 
and  seated  himself  on  the  steps.  The  girls  disposed 
themselves  at  a  little  distance  —  your  mountain-bred 
young  female  is  ever  obviously  shy,  almost  to  prudery. 

"Whar's  Johnnie  Consadine?"  asked  the  new 
comer  lazily,  disposing  himself  with  his  back  against 
a  post  and  his  long  legs  stretched  across  the  upper  step. 

"Settin'  in  thar,  readin'  a  book,"  replied  Beulah 
Catlett  curtly.  Beulah  was  but  fourteen,  and  she 
belonged  to  the  newer  dispensation  which  speaks  up 
more  boldly  to  the  masculine  half  of  creation. 
" Johnnie!  Johnnie  Consadine!"  she  called  through 
the  casement.  "Here's  Mr.  Buckheath,  wishful  of 
your  company.  Better  come  out." 

"I  will,  after  a  while/'returned  Johnnie  absently.  "I've 
got  to  help  Aunt  Mavity  some,  and  then  I'll  be  there." 

"Hit's  a  sight,  the  books  that  gal  does  read,"  com 
plained  Beulah.  "Looks  like  a  body  might  get  enough 
stayin'  in  the  house  by  workin'  in  a  cotton  mill,  without 
humpin'  theirselves  up  over  a  book  all  evenin'." 

"Mr.  Stoddard  lends  'em  to  her,"  announced  Mandy 


160   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

importantly.  "He  used  to  give  'em  to  Miss  Lyddy 
Sessions,  and  she'd  give  'em  to  Johnnie;  but  now 
when  Miss  Lyddy's  away,  he'll  bring  one  down  to  the 
mill  about  every  so  often,  and  him  an'  Johnnie'll  stand 
and  gas  and  talk  over  what's  in  'em  —  I  cain't  under 
stand  one  word  they  say.  I  tell  you  Johnnie  Con- 
sadine's  got  sense." 

Her  pride  in  Johnnie  made  her  miss  the  look  of 
rage  that  settled  on  Buckheath's  face  at  her  announce 
ment.  The  young  fellow  was  glad  when  Pap  Himes 
began  to  speak  growlingly. 

"Yes,  an'  if  she  was  my  gal  I'd  talk  to  her  with  a 
hickory  about  that  there  business.  A  gal  that  ain't 
too  old  to  carry  on  that-a-way  ain't  too  old  to  take  a 
whippin' for  it.  Huh!" 

For  her  own  self  Mandy  would  have  been  thoroughly 
scared  by  this  attack;  in  Johnnie's  defence  she  rustled 
her  feathers  like  an  old  hen  whose  one  chick  has  been 
menaced. 

"Johnnie  Consadine  is  the  prettiest-behaved  gal  I 
ever  seen,"  she  announced  shrilly.  "She  ain't  never 
said  nor  done  the  least  thing  that  she  hadn't  ort.  Mr. 
Stoddard  he  just  sees  how  awful  smart  she  is,  and  he 
loves  to  lend  her  books  and  talk  with  her  about  'em 
afterward.  For  my  part  I  ain't  never  seen  look  nor 
motion  about  Mr.  Gray  Stoddard  that  wasn't  such 
as  a  gentleman  ort  to  be.  I  know  he  never  said 
nothin'  he  ort  not  to  me" 

The  suggestion  of  Stoddard's  making  advances  of 
unseemly  warmth  to  Mandy  Meacham  produced  a 


THE   NEW   BOARDER  161 

subdued  snicker.  Even  Pap  smiled,  and  Mandy 
herself,  who  had  been  looking  a  bit  terrified  after  her 
bold  speaking,  was  reassured. 

Buckheath  had  been  a  week  at  the  Himes  boarding- 
house,  finding  it  not  unpleasant  to  show  Johnnie 
Consadine  how  many  of  the  girls  regarded  him  with 
favour,  whether  she  did  or  not,  when  he  came  to  supper 
one  evening  with  a  gleam  in  his  eye  that  spoke  evil 
for  some  one.  After  the  meal  was  over,  he  followed 
Pap  out  on  the  porch  and  sat  down  beside  the  old 
man,  the  girls  being  bunched  expectantly  on  the  step, 
for  he  was  apt  to  delay  for  a  bit  of  chat  with  one  or 
another  of  them  before  leaving. 

"You  infernal  old  rascal,  I've  caught  up  with  you," 
he  whispered,  leaning  close  to  his  host. 

Himes  clutched  the  pipe  in  his  teeth  till  it  clicked, 
and  stared  in  helpless  resentment  at  his  mealer. 

"What's    the    matter    with    you?"  he    demanded. 

"Speak  lower,  so  the  gals  won't  hear  you,  or  you'll 
wish  you  had,"  counselled  Shade.  "I  sent  that  there 
thing  on  to  Washington  to  get  a  patent  on  it,  and  now 
I  find  that  they  was  a  model  of  the  same  there  in  the 
name  of  Gideon  Himes.  What  do  you  make  of  that  ?" 

Pap  stared  at  the  thin  strips  of  metal  lying  in  Shade's 
hard,  brown  palm. 

"The  little  liar!"  he  breathed.  "She  told  me 
she  got  it  up  herself."  He  glared  at  the  bits  of  steel 
with  protruding  eyes,  and  breathed  hard. 

"Well,  she  didn't,"  Shade  countered  swiftly,  taking 
advantage  of  the  turn  things  were  showing.  "  I  made 


1 62   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

six  of  'em;  and  when  I  told  her  to  bring  'em  back 
and  I'd  give  her  some  that  would  wear  better,  she 
only  brought  me  five.  She  said  she'd  lost  one  here 
at  home,  she  believed.  I  might  have  knowed  then  that 
you'd  get  your  claws  on  it  ef  I  wasn't  mighty  peart." 

Old  Gideon  was  not  listening;  he  had  fallen  into  a 
brown  study,  turning  the  piece  of  metal  in  his  skilful, 
wonted,  knotty  ringers,  with  their  spade  tips. 

"Put  it  out  of  sight  —  quick  —  here  she  comes!" 
whispered  Shade;  and  the  old  man  looked  up  to  see 
Johnnie  Consadine  in  the  doorway.  A  grin  of  tri 
umph  grew  slowly  upon  his  face,  as  he  gazed  from  one 
to  the  other. 

"She  did  get  it  up!"  he  returned  in  Buckheath's 
fa.ce.  "You  liar!  You're  a-aimin'  to  steal  it  from 
her.  You  filed  out  the  pieces  like  she  told  you  to,  and 
when  you  found  it  would  work,  you  tried  to  get  a  patent 
on  it  for  yo'se'f.  Yes,  sir,  I'm  onto  you!" 

Shade  looked  over  his  shoulder.  The  girls  had 
forsaken  the  steps.  Despairing  of  his  coming,  they  were 
strolling  two-and-two  after  Johnnie  on  the  sidewalk. 

"  It's  you  and  me  for  it,  Pap,"  he  said  hardily. 
"  What  was  you  tryin'  to  do  ?  Was  you  gettin'  the 
patent  for  Johnnie  ?  Shall  I  call  her  up  here  and  ask 
her?" 

"No,  no,"  exclaimed  the  old  man  hastily.     "They 

ain't  no  use  of  puttin'  sich  things  in  a  fool  gal's  hands. 

She   never   heard   of  a    patent  —  wouldn't   know   one 

from  a  hole  in  the  ground.     Hit's  like  you  say,  Buck 

-you  and  me  for  it." 


THE   NEW  BOARDER  163 

The  two  men  rose  and  stood  a  moment,  Shade  smil 
ing  a  bit  to  think  what  he  would  do  with  Pap  Himes 
and  his  claim  if  he  could  only  once  get  Johnnie  to  say 
yes  to  his  suit.  The  thick  wits  of  the  elder  man  appar 
ently  realized  this  feature  of  the  matter  not  at  all. 

"Why  that  thar  girl  is  crazy  to  get  married,"  he 
argued,  half  angrily.  "You  know  in  reason  she  is  - 
they  all  are.  The  fust  night  when  you  brung  her 
here  I  named  it  to  her  that  she  was  pretty  well  along 
in  years,  and  she'd  better  be  spry  about  gettin'  her 
hooks  on  a  man,  or  she  was  left.  She  said  she'd  do 
the  best  she  could  —  I  never  heered  a  gal  speak  up 
pearter  —  most  of  'em  would  be  'shamed  to  name 
it  out  so  free.  Why,  if  it  was  me,  I'd  walk  her  down 
to  a  justice's  office  an'  wed  her  so  quick  her  head'd 
swim." 

"Who's  that  talking  about  getting  married?" 
called  Johnnie's  voice  from  the  street,  and  Johnnie 
herself  ran  up  the  steps. 

"Hit  was  me,"  harangued  Pap  Himes  doggedly. 
"I  was  tellin'  Shade  how  bad  you  wanted  to  git  off, 
and  that  I  'lowed  you'd  be  a  good  bargain  for  him." 

He  looked  hopefully  from  one  to  the  other,  as  though 
he  expected  to  see  his  advice  accepted  and  put  into 
immediate  practice.  Johnnie  laughed  whole-heartedly. 

"Pap,"  she  said  with  shining  eyes,  "if  you  get  me 
a  husband,  I'll  have  to  give  you  a  commission  on  it. 
Looks  like  I  can't  noways  get  one  for  myself,  don't  it  ?" 

She  passed  into  the  house,  and  Shade  regarded 
his  ally  in  helpless  anger. 


1 64   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

"That's  the  way  she  talks,  here  lately,"  he  growled. 
"Seems  like  it  would  be  easy  enough  to  come  to  some 
thing;  and  by  the  Lord,  it  would,  with  any  other  gal 
I  ever  seed  —  or  with  Johnnie  like  she  was  when  she 
first  came  down  here!  But  these  days  and  times 
she's  got  a  way  of  puttin'  me  off  that  I  can't  seem  to 
get  around." 

Neither  man  quite  understood  the  power  of  that 
mental  culture  which  Johnnie  was  assimilating  so 
avidly.  That  reading  things  in  a  book  should  enable 
her  —  a  child,  a  girl,  a  helpless  woman  —  to  negative 
their  wishes  smilingly,  this  would  have  been  a  thing 
quite  outside  the  comprehension  of  either. 

"Aunt  Mavity  wants  me  to  go  down  to  the  store 
for  her,"  Johnnie  announced,  returning.  "Any  of 
you  girls  like  to  come  along?" 

Mandy  had  parted  her  lips  to  accept  the  general 
invitation,  when  Shade  Buckheath  rose  to  his  feet  and 
announced  curtly,  "I'll  go  with  you." 

His  glance  added  that  nobody  else  was  wanted, 
and  Mandy  subsided  into  a  seat  on  the  steps  and 
watched  the  two  walk  away  side  by  side. 

"  Looks  like  you  ain't  just  so  awful  pleased  to  have 
me    boardin'    with    Pap,"    Shade    began    truculently, 
when  it  appeared  that  the  girl  was  not  going  to  open 
any    conversation    with    him.     "  Maybe    you    wasn't 
a-carin'  for  my  company  down   street  this  eveninV 

"No,"  said  Johnnie,  bluntly  but  very  quietly.  "I 
wish  you  hadn't  come  to  the  house  to  board.  1  have 
told  you  to  let  me  alone." 


THE  NEW  BOARDER  165 

Shade  laughed,  an  exasperated,  mirthless  laugh. 
''You  know  well  enough  what  made  me  do  it,"  he 
said  sullenly.  "If  you  don't  want  me  to  board  with 
Pap  Himes  you  can  stop  it  any  day  you  say  the  word. 
You  promise  to  wed  me,  and  I'll  go  back  to  the  Inn. 
The  Lord  knows  they  feed  you  better  thar,  and  I 
believe  in  my  soul  the  gals  at  Pap  Himes's  will  run 
me  crazy.  But  as  long  as  you  hang  off  the  way  you 
do  about  our  marryin',  and  I  git  word  of  you  carryin' 
on  with  other  folks,  I'm  goin'  to  stay  where  I  can 
watch  you." 

"Other  folks!"  echoed  Johnnie,  colour  coming  into 
her  cheeks.  "Shade,  there's  no  use  of  your  quarrelling 
with  me,  and  I  see  it's  what  you're  settin'  out  to  do." 

"Yes,  other  folks  —  Mr.  Gray  Stoddard,  for  instance. 
I  ain't  got  no  auto  to  take  you  out  ridin'  in,  but  you're 
a  blame  sight  safer  with  me  than  you  are  with  him; 
and  if  I  was  to  carry  word  to  your  mother  or  your 
uncle  Pros  about  your  doin's  they'd  say  - 

"  The  last  word  my  uncle  Pros  left  with  ma  to  give 
me  was  that  you'd  bear  watchin',  Shade  Buckheath," 
laughed  Johnnie,  her  face  breaking  up  into  sweet, 
sudden  mirth  at  the  folly  of  it  all.  "You're  not  aimin' 
for  my  good.  I  don't  see  what  on  earth  makes  you 
talk  like  you  wanted  to  marry  me." 

"  Because  I  do,"  said  Buckheath  helplessly.  He 
wondered  if  the  girl  did  not  herself  know  her  own 
attractions,  forgetful  that  he  had  not  seen  them  plainly 
till  a  man  higher  placed  in  the  social  scale  set  the 
cachet  of  a  gentleman's  admiration  upon  them. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  CONTENTS  OF  A  BANDANNA 

IT    WAS    a    breathless   August   evening;     all  day 
the     land     had     lain    humming    and     quivering 
beneath     the     glare     of    the     sun.      It     seemed 
that  such  heat  must  culminate  in  a  thunder  shower. 
Even  Pap  Himes  had  sought  the  coolest  corner  of  the 
porch,  his    pipe  put  out,  as   adding   too   much  to  the 
general  swelter,  and   the  hot,  yellow  cat  perched  at  a 
discreet  distance. 

The  old  man's  dreamy  eyes  were  fixed  with  a  sort 
of  animal  content  on  the  winding  road  that  disappeared 
in  the  rise  of  the  gap.  If  was  his  boast  that  God 
Almighty  never  made  a  day  too  hot  for  him,  and  to 
the  marrow  of  them  his  rheumatic  bones  felt  and 
savoured  the  comfort  of  this  blistering  weather.  High 
up  on  the  road  he  had  noted  a  small  moving  speck 
that  appeared  and  disappeared  as  the  foliage  hid  it, 
or  gaps  in  the  trees  revealed  it.  It  was  not  yet  time 
for  the  mill  operatives  to  be  out;  but  as  he  glanced 
eagerly  in  the  direction  of  the  buildings,  the  gates 
opened  and  the  loom-fixers  streamed  forth.  Pap  had 
matters  of  some  importance  to  discuss  with  Shade 
Buckheath,  and  he  was  glad  to  see  the  young  man's 
figure  come  swinging  down  the  street.  The  two  were 

166 


THE  CONTENTS  OF  A  BANDANNA  167 

soon  deep  in  a  whispered  discussion,  their  heads  bent 
close  together. 

The  little  speck  far  up  the  road  beteween  the  trees 
announced  itself  to  the  eye  now  as  a  moving  figure, 
walking  down  toward  Cottonville. 

"Well,  I'll  read  it  again,  if  you  don't  believe  me," 
Buckheath  said  impatiently.  "All  that  Alabama  mill 
wants  is  to  have  me  go  over  there  and  put  this  trick 
on  their  jennies,  and  if  it  works  they'll  give  us  a  royalty 
of  —  well,  I'll  make  the  bargain." 

"Or  I  will,"  countered  Pap  swiftly. 

"You?"  inquired  Shade  contemptuously.  "Time 
they  wrote  some  of  the  business  down  and  you  couldn't 
read  it,  whar'd  you  be,  and  whar'd  our  money  be?" 

The  moving  speck  on  the  road  appeared  at  this  time 
to  be  the  figure  of  a  tall  man,  walking  unsteadily,  reeling 
from  side  to  side  of  the  road,  yet  approaching  the  village. 

"Shade,"  pacified  Himes,  with  a  truckling  manner 
that  the  younger  man's  aggressions  were  apt  to  call 
out  in  him,  "you  know  I  don't  mean  anything  against 
you,  but  I  believe  in  my  soul  I'd  ruther  sell  out  the 
patent.  That  man  in  Lowell  said  he'd  give  twenty 
thousand  dollars  if  it  was  proved  to  work  —  now 
didn't  he?" 

"Yes,  and  by  the  time  it's  proved  to  work  we'll 
have  made  three  times  that  much  out  of  it.  There  ain't 
a  spinning  mill  in  the  country  that  won't  save  money 
by  putting  in  the  indicator,  and  paying  us  a  good 
royalty  on  it.  If  Johnnie  and  me  was  wedded,  I'd 
go  to  work  to-morrow  advertising  the  thing." 


i68   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

"The  gal  ain't  in  the  mill  this  afternoon,  is  she?" 
asked  old  Himes. 

"No,  She's  gone  off  somewheres  with  some  folks 
Hardwick's  sister-in-law  has  got  here.  If  you  want 
to  find  her  these  days,  you've  got  to  hunt  in  some  of 
the  swell  houses  round  on  the  hills." 

He  spoke  with  bitterness,  and  Pap  nodded  com- 
prehendingly;  the  subject  was  an  old  one  between 
them.  Then  Shade  drew  from  his  pocket  a  letter  and 
prepared  to  read  it  once  more  to  the  older  man. 

"Whar's  Johnnie?" 

Himes  started  so  violently  that  he  disturbed  the 
equilibrium  of  his  chair  and  brought  the  front  legs 
to  the  floor  with  a  slam,  so  that  he  sat  staring  straight 
ahead.  Shade  Buckheath  whirled  and  saw  Pros 
Passmore  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  —  the  mov 
ing  speck  come  to  full  size.  The  old  man  was  a 
wilder-looking  figure  than  usual.  He  had  no  hat  on, 
and  a  bloody  cloth  bound  around  his  head  confined 
the  straggling  gray  locks  quaintly.  The  face  was 
ghastly,  the  clothing  in  tatters,  and  his  hands  trembled 
as  they  clutched  a  bandanna  evidently  full  of  some 
small  articles  that  rattled  together  in  his  shaking 
grasp. 

"Good  Lord  —  Pros!  You  mighty  nigh  scared 
me  out  of  a  year's  growth,"  grumbled  Pap,  hitching 
vainly  to  throw  his  chair  back  into  position.  "Come 
in.  Come  in.  You  look  like  you'd  been  seein*  trouble." 

"Whar's    Johnnie?"     repeated    old    Pros  hollowly. 

It  was  the  younger  man  who  answered  this  time, 


THE  CONTENTS  OF  A  BANDANNA  169 

with  an  ugly  lift  of  the  lip  over  his  teeth,  between  a 
sneer  and  a  snarl. 

"She's  gone  gaddin'  around  with  some  of  her  swell 
friends.  She  may  be  home  before  midnight,  an' 
then  again  she  may  not,"  he  said. 

The  old  man  collapsed  on  the  lower  step. 

"I  wish't  Johnnie  was  here,"  he  said  querulously. 
"I  -  '  he  looked  about  him  confusedly  —  "  I've  found 
her  silver  mine." 

At  the  words  the  two  on  the  porch  became  sud 
denly  rigid.  Then  Buckheath  sprang  down  the  steps, 
caught  Passmore  under  the  arm-pits  and  half  led, 
half  dragged  him  up  to  a  chair,  into  which  he  thrust 
him  with  little  ceremony. 

He  stood  before  the  limp  figure,  peering  into  the 
newcomer's  face  with  eyes  of  greed  and  hands  that 
clenched  and  unclenched  themselves  automatically. 

"You've  found  the  silver  mine!"  he  volleyed  excit 
edly.  "Whose  land  is  it  on?  Have  you  got  options 
yet?  My  grandpappy  always  said  they  was  a  silver 
mine  - 

"Hush!"  Pap  Himes's  voice  hissed  across  the  loud 
explosive  tones.  "No  need  to  tell  your  business  to 
the  town.  I'll  bet  Pros  ain't  thought  about  no  options 
yit-  He  may  need  friends  to  he'p  him  out  on  such 
matters;  and  here's  you  and  me,  Buck  —  God  knows 
he  couldn't  have  better  ones." 

The  old  man  stared  about  him  in  a  dazed  fashion. 

"I've  got  my  specimens  in  this  here  bandanner," 
he  explained  quaveringly.  "I  fell  over  the  ledge, 


1 70   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

was  the  way  I  chanced  upon  it  at  the  last,  and  I  lay 
dead  for  a  spell.  My  head's  busted  right  bad.  But 
the  ore  specimens,  they're  right  here  in  the  bandanner, 
and  I  aimed  to  give  'em  to  Johnnie  —  to  put  'em  right 
in  her  lap —  the  best  gal  that  ever  was  —  and  say  to 
her,  'Here's  your  silver  mine,  honey,  that  your  good- 
for-nothin'  old  uncle  found  for  ye;  now  you  can  live 
like  a  lady!'  That's  what  I  aimed  to  say  to  Johnnie. 
I  didn't  aim  that  nobody  else  should  tetch  them  samples 
till  she'd  saw  'em." 

Himes  and  Buckheath  were  exchanging  glances 
across  the  old  man's  bent,  gray  head.  Common 
humanity  would  have  suggested  that  they  offer  him 
rest  or  refreshment,  but  these  two  were  intent  only 
on  what  the  bandanna  held. 

What  is  it  in  the  thought  of  wealth  from  the  ground 
that  so  intoxicates,  so  ravishes  away  from  all  reasonable 
judgment,  the  generality  of  mankind  ?  People  never 
seem  to  conceive  that  there  might  be  no  more  than 
moderate  repayal  for  great  toil  in  a  mine  of  any  sort. 
The  very  word  mine  suggests  to  them  tapping  the  vast 
treasure-house  of  the  world,  and  drawing  an  unlimited 
share  —  wealth  lavish,  prodigal,  intemperate.  These 
two  were  as  mad  with  greed  at  the  thought  of  the  silver 
mine  in  the  mountains  as  ever  were  forty-niners  in 
the  golden  days  of  California,  or  those  more  recent 
ignoble  martyrs  who  strewed  their  bones  along  the 
icy  trails  of  the  Klondike. 

"Ye  better  let  me  look  at  'em  Pros,"  wheedled 
Pap  Himes.  "I  know  a  heap  about  silver  ore.  I've 


THE   CONTENTS   OF  A  BANDANNA   171 

worked  in  the  Georgia  gold  mines  —  and  you  know 
you  never  find  gold  without  silver.  I  was  three  months 
in  the  mountains  with  a  feller  that  was  huntin'  nickel; 
he  1'arned  me  a  heap." 

The  old  man  turned  his  disappointed  gaze  from 
one  face  to  the  other. 

"I  wish't  Johnnie  was  here,"  he  repeated  his  plain 
tive  formula,  as  he  raised  the  handkerchief  and  untied 
the  corners. 

Pap  glanced  apprehensively  up  and  down  the  street; 
Buckheath  ran  to  the  door  and  shut  it,  that  none  in 
the  house  might  see  or  overhear;  and  then  the  three 
stared  at  the  unpromising-looking,  earthy  bits  of 
mineral  in  silence.  Finally  Himes  put  down  a  stubby 
forefinger  and  stirred  them  meaninglessly. 

"Le'  me  try  one  with  my  knife,"  he  whispered,  as 
though  there  were  any  one  to  hear  him. 

"All  right,"  returned  the  old  man  nervelessly. 
"But  hit  ain't  soft  enough  for  lead  —  if  that's  what 
you're  meanin*.  I  know  that  much.  A  lead  mine 
is  a  mighty  good  thing.  Worth  as  much  as  silver 
maybe;  but  this  ain't  lead." 

A  curious  tremor  had  come  over  Pap  Himes's  face 
as  he  furtively  compared  the  lump  of  ore  he  held  in 
his  hand  with  something  which  he  took  from  his  pocket. 
He  seemed  to  come  to  some  sudden  resolution. 

"No,  'tain't  lead  —  and  'tain't  nothin',"  he  declared 
contemptuously,  flinging  the  bit  he  held  back  into  the 
handkerchief.  "Pros  Passmore — ye  old  fool — you 
come  down  here  and  work  us  all  up  over  some  truck 


1 72   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

that  wasn't  worth  turnin'  with  a  spade!  You  might 
as  well  throw  them  things  away.  Whar  in  the  nation 
did  you  git  'em,  anyhow?" 

Passmore  stumbled  to  his  feet.  He  had  eaten  nothing 
for  three  days,  The  fall  over  the  ledge  had  injured 
him  severely.  He  was  scarcely  sane  at  the  moment. 

"Ain't  they  no  'count?"  he  asked  pitifully.  "Why, 
I  made  shore  they  was  silver.  Well"  -he  looked 
aimlessly  about-  "I  better  go  find  Johnnie,"  and 
he  started  down  the  steps. 

"Leave  'em  here,  Pros,  and  go  in.  Mavity'll 
give  you  a  cup  of  coffee,"  suggested  Pap,  in  a  kinder 
tone. 

The  bandanna  slipped  rattling  from  the  old  man's 
relaxed  fingers.  The  specimens  clattered  and  rolled 
on  the  porch  floor.  With  drooping  head  he  shambled 
through  the  door. 

A  woman's  face  disappeared  for  a  moment  from 
the  shadowy  front-room  window,  only  to  reappear  and 
watch  unseen.  Mavity  was  listening  in  a  sort  of  horror 
as  she  heard  her  father's  tones. 

"Git  down  and  pick  'em  up  —  every  one!  Don't 
you  miss  a  one.  Yo'  eyes  is  younger'n  mine.  Hunt 
'em  up!  hunt  'em  up,"  hissed  Pap,  casting  himself 
upon  the  handkerchief  and  its  contents. 

"What  is  it?"  questioned  Buckheath  keenly.  "I 
thort  you  had  some  game  on  hand."  And  he  hastened 
to  comply.  "Air  they  really  silver  ?" 

"No  —  better'n  that.  They're  nickel.  The  feller 
that  was  here  from  the  North  said  by  the  dips  and 


HE    LOOMED    ABOVE    THEM,  WHITE    AND    SHAKING.     "YOU 

THIEVES,"  HE  ROARED.     "  GIVE  ME  MY  BANDANNER  ! 

GIVE  ME  JOHNNIE'S  SILVER  MINE!" 


THE  CONTENTS  OF  A  BANDANNA  173 

turns  of  the  stratagems  an'  such-like  we  was  bound 
to  have  nickel  in  these  here  mountains  somewhar. 
A  nickel  mine's  better'n  a  gold  mine  —  an'  these  is 
nickel.  I  know  'em  by  the  piece  o'  nickel  ore  from 
the  Canady  mines  that  I  carry  constantly  in  my  pocket. 
We'll  keep  the  old  fool  out  of  the  knowin'  of  it,  and 
find  whar  the  mine  is  at,  and  we'll  - 

The  two  men  squatted  on  the  floor,  tallying  over  the 
specimens  they  had  already  collected,  and  looking  about 
them  for  more.  In  the  doorway  behind  them  appeared 
a  face,  gaunt,  grimed,  a  blood-stained  bandage  around 
the  brow,  and  a  pair  of  glowing,  burning  eyes  looking 
out  beneath.  Uncle  Pros  had  failed  to  find  Mavity 
Bence,  and  was  returning.  Too  dazed  to  compre 
hend  mere  words,  the  old  prospector  read  instantly 
and  aright  the  attitude  and  expression  of  the  two. 
As  they  tied  the  last  knot  in  the  handkerchief,  he 
loomed  above  them,  white  and  shaking. 

"You  thieves!"  he  roared.  "Give  me  my  bandan- 
ner!  Give  me  Johnnie's  silver  mine!" 

"Yes — yes — yes!  Don't  holler  it  out  that-a- 
way!"  whispered  Pap  Himes  from  the  floor,  where 
he  crouched,  still  clutching  the  precious  bits  of 
ore. 

"We  was  a-goin'  to  give  'em  to  you,  Uncle  Pros. 
We  was  just  foolin',"  Buckheath  attempted  to  reassure 
him. 

The  old  man  bent  forward  and  shot  down  a  long 
arm  to  recover  his  own.  He  missed  the  bandanna, 
and  the  impetus  of  the  movement  sent  him  staggering 


i74   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

a  pace  or  two  forward.  At  the  porch  edge  he  strove 
to  recover  himself,  failed,  and  with  a  short,  coughing 
groan,  pitched  down  the  steps  and  lay,  an  inert  mass, 
at  their  foot. 

"Cover    that    handkecher    up,"    whispered    Himes 
before  either  man  moved  to  his  assistance. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A    PATIENT   FOR   THE    HOSPITAL 

WHEN  the  Hardwick  carriage  drove  up  in  the 
heavy,  ill-odoured  August  night,  and  stopped 
at  the  gate  to  let  Johnnie  Consadine  out, 
Pap  Himes's  boarding-house  was  blazing  with  light 
from  window  and  doorway,  clacking  and  humming 
like  a  mill  with  the  sound  of  noisy  footsteps  and  voices. 
Three  or  four  men  argued  and  talked  loudly  on  the 
porch.  Through  the  open  windows  of  the  front  room, 
Johnnie  had  a  glimpse  of  a  long,  stark  figure  lying  on 
the  lounge,  and  a  white  face  which  struck  her  with  a 
strange  pang  of  vague  yet  alarming  resemblance. 
She  made  her  hasty  thankr  to  Miss  Sessions  and  hurried 
in.  Gray  Stoddard's  horse  was  standing  at  the  hitch 
ing  post  in  front,  and  Gray  met  her  at  the  head  of  the 
steps. 

Stoddard  looked  particularly  himself  in  riding  dress. 
Its  more  unconventional  lines  suited  him  well;  the  dust- 
brown  Norfolk,  the  leathern  puttees,  gave  an  adven 
turous  turn  to  the  expression  of  a  personality  which 
was  only  so  on  the  mental  side.  He  always  rode  bare 
headed,  and  the  brown  hair,  which  he  wore  a  little 
longer  than  other  men's,  was  tossed  from  its  mascu 
line  primness  to  certain  hyacinthine  lines  which  were 

'75 


176   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

becoming.  Just  now  his  clear  brown  eyes  were  lumin 
ous  with  feeling.  He  put  out  a  swift,  detaining  hand 
and  caught  hers,  laying  sympathetic  fingers  over  the 
clasp  and  retaining  it  as  he  spoke. 

"I'm  so  relieved  that  you've  come  at  last,"  he  said. 
"We  need  somebody  of  intelligence  here.  I  just  hap 
pened  to  come  past  a  few  minutes  after  the  accident. 
Don't  be  frightened;  your  uncle  came  down  to  see  you, 
and  got  a  fall  somehow.  He's  hurt  pretty  badly, 
I'm  afraid,  and  these  people  are  refusing  to  have  him 
taken  to  the  hospital." 

On  the  one  side  Himes  and  Buckheath  drew  back 
and  regarded  this  scene  with  angry  derision.  In  the 
carriage  below  Lydia  Sessions,  who  could  hear  nothing 
that  was  said,  stared  incredulously,  and  moved  as 
though  to  get  down  and  join  Johnnie. 

"You'll  want  him  sent  to  the  hospital?"  Stoddard 
urged,  half  interrogatively.  "Look  in  there.  Listen 
to  the  noise.  This  is  no  fit  place  for  a  man  with  ;« 
possible  fracture  of  the  skull." 

"Yes — oh,  yes,"  agreed  Johnnie  promptly.  "If 
I  could  nurse  him  myself  I'd  like  to  —  or  help;  but  of 
course  he's  got  to  go  to  the  hospital,  first  of  everything." 

Stoddard  motioned  the  Hardwick  driver  to  wait, 
and  called  down  to  the  carriage  load,  "I  want  you 
people  to  drive  round  by  the  hospital  and  send  the 
ambulance,  if  you'll  be  so  kind.  There's  a  man  hurt 
in  here." 

Lydia  Sessions  made  this  an  immediate  pretext  for 
getting  down  and  coming  in. 


A  PATIENT  FOR  THE   HOSPITAL     177 

"  Did  you  say  they  didn't  wane  to  send  him  to  the 
hospital?"  she  inquired  sharply  and  openly,  in  her 
tactless  fashion,  as  she  crossed  the  sidewalk.  "That's 
the  worst  thing  about  such  people;  you  provide  them 
with  the  best,  and  they  don't  know  enough  to  appre 
ciate  it.  Have  they  got  a  doctor,  or  done  anything 
for  the  poor  man  ?" 

"I  sent  for  Millsaps,  here  —  he  knows  more  about 
broken  bones  than  anybody  in  Cottonville,"  Pap 
offered  sullenly,  mopping  his  brow  and  shaking  his 
bald  head.  "Millsaps  is  a  decent  man.  You  know 
what  he's  a-goin'  to  do  to  the  sick." 

"Is  he  a  doctor?"  asked  Stoddard  sternly,  looking 
at  the  lank,  shuffling  individual  named. 

"He  can  doctor  a  cow  or  a  nag  better'n  anybody 
I  ever  saw,"  Pap  put  forward  rather  shamefacedly. 

"A  veterinarian,"  commented  Stoddard.  "Well, 
they've  gone  for  the  ambulance,  and  the  surgeon  will 
:soon  be  here  now." 

"I  don't  know  nothin'  about  veterinarians  and 
surgeons,"  growled  Pap,  still  alternately  mopping  his 
bald  head  and  shaking  it  contemptuously;  "but  I 
know  that  Millsaps  ain't  a-goin'  to  box  up  any  dead 
bodies  and  send  'em  to  the  medical  colleges;  and  I 
know  he  made  as  pretty  a  job  of  doctoring  old  Spotty 
as  ever  I  seen.  To  be  shore  the  cow  died,  but  he  got 
the  medicine  down  her  when  it  didn't  look  as  if  human 
hands  could  do  it  —  that's  the  kind  of  doctor  he  is." 

"I  aim  to  give  Mr.  Passmore  a  teaspoonful  of  lamp 
oil  —  karosene,"  said  the  cow  doctor,  coming  forward,- 


178   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

evidently  feeling  that  it  was  time  he  spoke  up  for 
himself.  "Lamp  oil  is  mighty  rousin'  to  them  as  lays 
like  he's  doin*.  I've  used  copperas  for  such  —  but  it 
takes  longer.  Some  say  a  dose  of  turpentine  is  better'n 
lamp  oil  —  hut  I  'low  both  of  'em  won't  hurt.'* 

Johnnie  pushed  past  them  all  into  the  front  room 
where  the  women  were  running  about,  talking  loud 
and  exclaiming.  A  kerosene  lamp  without  a  chimney 
smoked  and  flared  on  the  table,  filling  the  room  with 
evil  odours.  Pros  Passmore's  white  face  thrown  up 
against  the  lounge  cushion  was  the  only  quiet,  dignified 
object  in  sight. 

"Mandy,"  said  Johnnie,  catching  the  Meacham 
woman  by  the  elbow  as  she  passed  her  bearing  a  small 
kerosene  can,  "you  go  up  to  my  room  and  get  the 
good  lamp  I  have  there.  Then  take  this  thing  away. 
Where's  Aunt  Mavity?" 

"I  don't  know.  She's  been  carryin'  on  somethin' 
tumble.  Yes,  Johnnie,  honey — I'll  get  the  lamp  for  ye." 

When  Johnnie  turned  to  her  uncle,  she  found  Mill- 
saps  bending  above  him,  the  small  can  in  his  hands, 
its  spout  approached  to  the  rigid  blue  lips  of  the 
patient  with  the  unconcern  of  a  man  about  to  fill  a 
lamp.  She  sprang  forward  and  caught  his  arm,  bring 
ing  the  can  away  with  a  clatter  and  splash. 

"You  mustn't  do  that,"  she  said  authoritatively. 
"The  doctors  will  be  here  in  a  minute.  You  mustn't 
give  him  anything,  Mr.  Millsaps." 

"Oh,  all  right  —  all  right,"  agreed  Millsaps,  with 
decidedly  the  air  that  he  considered  it  all  wrong. 


A  PATIENT  FOR  THE   HOSPITAL     179 

"There  is  some  people  that  has  objections  to  having 
their  kin-folks  cyarved  up  by  student  doctors.  Then 
agin,  there  is  others  that  has  no  better  use  for  kin  than 
to  let  'em  be  so  treated.  I  'low  that  a  little  dosin' 
of  lamp  oil  never  hurt  nobody  —  and  it's  cured  a-many, 
of  most  any  kind  of  disease.  But  just  as  you  say  — 
just  as  you  say."  And  he  shuffled  angrily  from  the 
room. 

Johnnie  went  and  knelt  by  the  lounge.  With  deft, 
careful  fingers  she  lifted  the  wet  cloths  above  the 
bruised  forehead.  The  hurt  looked  old.  No  blood 
was  flowing,  and  she  wondered  a  little.  Catching 
Shade  Buckheath's  eye  fixed  on  her  from  outside 
the  window,  she  beckoned  him  in  and  asked  him  to 
tell  her  exactly  how  the  trouble  came  about.  Buck- 
heath  gave  her  his  own  version  of  the  matter,  omitting, 
of  course,  all  mention  of  the  bandanna  full  of  ore  which 
lay  now  carefully  hidden  at  the  bottom  of  old  Gideon 
Himes's  trunk. 

"And  you  say  he  fell  down  the  steps?"  asked 
Johnnie.  "Who  was  with  him?  Who  saw  it?" 

"Nobody  but  me  and  Pap,"  Shade  answered,  trying 
to  give  the  reply  unconcernedly. 

"I  —  I  seen  it,"  whispered  Mavity  Bence,  pluck 
ing  at  Johnnie's  sleeve.  "I  was  in  the  fore  room 
here  —  and  I  seen  it  all." 

She  spoke  defiantly,  but  her  terrified  glance  barely 
raised  itself  to  the  menacing  countenances  of  the  two 
men  on  the  other  side  of  the  lounge,  and  fell  at  once. 
"I  never  heard  nothin'  they  was  sayin',"  she  made 


i8o   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

haste  to  add.  "  But  I  seen  Pros  fall,  and  I  run  out 
and  helped  Pap  and  Shade  fetch  him  in." 

Peculiar  as  was  the  attitude  of  all  three,  Johnnie 
felt  a  certain  relief  in  the  implied  assurance  that  there 
had  been  no  quarrel,  that  her  uncle  had  not  been 
struck  or  knocked  down  the  steps. 

"Why,  Pap,"  she  said  kindly,  looking  across  at  the 
old  man's  perturbed,  sweating  face,  "you  surely  ain't 
like  these  foolish  folks  round  here  in  Cottonville 
that  think  the  hospital  was  started  up  to  get  dead 
bodies  for  the  student  doctors  to  cut  to  pieces.  You 
see  how  bad  off  Uncle  Pros  is;  you  must  know  he's 
bound  to  be  better  taken  care  of  there  in  that  fine 
building,  and  with  all  those  folks  that  have  learned 
their  business  to  take  care  of  him,  than  here  in  this 
house  with  only  me.  Besides,  I  couldn't  even  stay 
at  home  from  the  mill  to  nurse  him.  Somebody's 
got  to  earn  the  money." 

"I  wouldn't  charge  you  no  board,  Johnnie,"  fairly 
whined  Himes.  "I'm  willin'  to  nurse  Pros  myself, 
without  he'p,  night  and  day.  You  speak  up  mighty 
fine  for  that  thar  hospital.  What  about  Lura  Dawson  ? 
Everybody  knows  they  shipped  her  body  to  Cincin 
nati  and  sold  it.  You  ort  to  be  ashamed  to  put  your 
poor  old  uncle  in  such  a  place." 

Johnnie  turned  puzzled  eyes  from  the  rigid  face 
on  the  lounge  —  Pros  had  neither  moved  nor  spoken 
since  they  lifted  and  laid  him  there  —  to  the  old  man 
at  the  window.  That  Pap  Himes  should  be  con 
cerned,  even  slightly,  about  the  welfare  of  any  living 


A   PATIENT  FOR  THE   HOSPITAL     181 

being  save  himself,  struck  her  as  wildly  improbable. 
Then,  swiftly,  she  reproached  herself  for  not  being 
readier  to  believe  good  of  him.  He  and  Uncle  Pros 
had  been  boys  together,  and  she  knew  her  uncle  one 
to  deserve  affection,  though  he  seldom  commanded  it. 

There  was  a  sound  of  wheels  outside,  and  Gray 
Stoddard's  voice  with  that  of  the  doctor's.  Shade 
and  Pap  Himes  still  hovered  nervously  about  the 
window,  staring  in  and  hearkening  to  all  that  was 
said.  Mavity  Bence  had  wept  till  her  face  was  sod 
den.  She  herded  the  other  girls  back  out  of  the  way, 
but  watched  everything  with  terrified  eyes. 

"He'll  jest  about  come  to  hisself  befo'  he  dies," 
the  older  conspirator  muttered  to  Shade  as  the  stretcher 
passed  them,  and  the  skilled,  white-jacketed  attend 
ants  laid  Pros  Passmore  in  the  vehicle  without  so  much 
as  disturbing  his  breathing.  "He'll  jest  about  come 
to  hisself  thar,  and  them  pesky  doctors  '11  have  word 
about  the  silver  mine.  Well,  in  this  world,  them  that 
has,  gits,  mostly.  Ef  Johnnie  Consadine  had  been 
any  manner  o'  kin  to  me,  I  vow  I'd  'a'  taken  a  hickory 
to  her  when  she  set  up  her  word  agin'  mine  and  let 
him  go  out  of  the  house.  The  little  fool!  she  didn't 
know  what  she  was  sendin'  away." 

And  so  Pros  Passmore  was  taken  to  the  hospital. 
His  bandanna  full  of  ore  remained  buried  at  the 
bottom  of  Gideon  Himes's  trunk,  to  be  fished  up  often 
by  the  old  sinner,  fingered  and  fondled,  and  laid  back 
in  hiding;  while  the  man  who  had  carried  it  down 
the  mountains  to  fling  it  in  Johnnie's  lap  lay  with 


182   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

locked  lips,  and  told  neither  the  doctors  nor  Himes 
where  the  silver  mine  was.  August  sweated  itself 
away;  September  wore  on  into  October  in  a  proces 
sion  of  sun-robed,  dust-sandalled  days,  and  still  Uncle 
Pros  gave  no  sign  of  actual  recovery. 

Johnnie  was  working  hard  in  the  mill.  Hartley 
Sessions  had  become,  in  his  cold,  lifeless  fashion, 
very  much  her  friend.  Inert,  slow,  he  had  one  quali 
fication  for  his  position:  he  could  choose  an  assistant, 
or  delegate  authority  with  good  judgment;  and  he 
found  in  Johnnie  Consadine  an  adjutant  so  reliable, 
so  apt,  and  of  such  ability,  that  he  continually  pushed 
more  work  upon  her,  if  pay  and  honours  did  not 
always  follow  in  adequate  measure. 

For  a  time,  much  as  she  disliked  to  approach  Shade 
with  any  request,  Johnnie  continued  to  urge  him 
whenever  they  met  to  finish  up  the  indicators  and 
let  her  have  them  back  again.  Then  Hartley  Sessions 
promoted  her  to  a  better  position  in  the  weaving 
department,  and  other  cares  drove  the  matter  from 
her  mind. 

The  condition  of  Uncle  Pros  added  fearfully  to  the 
drains  upon  her  time  and  thought.  The  old  man 
lay  in  his  hospital  cot  till  the  great  frame  had  wasted 
fairly  to  the  big  bones,  following  her  movements 
when  she  came  into  the  room  with  strange,  questioning, 
unrecognizing  eyes,  yet  always  quieted  and  soothed 
by  her  presence,  so  that  she  felt  urged  to  give  him 
every  moment  she  could  steal  from  her  work.  The 
hurts  on  his  head,  which  were  mere  scalp  wounds, 


A  PATIENT  FOR  THE   HOSPITAL     183 

healed  over;  the  surgeon  at  the  hospital  was  unable 
to  find  any  indentation  or  injury  to  the  skull  itself 
which  would  account  for  the  old  man's  condition. 
They  talked  for  a  long  time  of  an  operation,  and 
did  finally  trephine,  without  result.  They  would 
make  an  X-ray  photograph,  they  said,  when  he 
should  be  strong  enough  to  stand  it,  as  a  means  of 
further  investigation. 

Meantime  his  expenses,  though  made  fairly  nominal 
to  her,  cut  into  the  money  which  Johnnie  could  send 
to  her  mother,  and  she  was  full  of  anxiety  for  the  help 
less  little  family  left  without  head  or  protector  up  in 
that  gash  of  the  wind-grieved  mountains  on  the  flank 
of  Big  Unaka. 

In  these  days  Shade  Buckheath  vacillated  from  the 
suppliant  attitude  to  the  threatening.  Johnnie  never 
knew  when  she  met  him  which  would  be  uppermost; 
and  since  he  had  wearied  out  her  gratitude  and  liking, 
she  cared  little.  One  thing  surprised  and  touched  her 
a  bit,  and  that  was  that  Shade  used  to  meet  her  of  an 
evening  when  she  would  be  coming  from  the  hospital, 
and  ask  eagerly  after  the  welfare  of  Uncle  Pros.  He 
finally  begged  her  to  get  him  a  chance  to  see  the  old 
man,  and  she  did  so,  but  his  presence  seemed  to  have 
such  a  disturbing  effect  on  the  patient  that  the  doctors 
prohibited  further  visits. 

"Well,  I  done  just  like  you  told  me  to,  and  them 
cussed  sawboneses  won't  let  me  go  back  no  more," 
Shade  reported  to  Pap  Himes  that  evening.  "Old 
Pros  just  swelled  hisself  out  like  a  toad  and  hollered 


184   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

at  me  time  I  got  in  the  room.  He's  sure  crazy  all 
right.  He  looks  like  he  couldn't  last  long,  but  them 
that  heirs  what  he  has  will  git  the  writin'  that  tells 
whar  the  silver  mine's  at.  Johnnie's  liable  to  find 
that  writin'  any  day;  or  he  may  come  to  hisself  and 
tell  her." 

"Well,  for  God's  sake,"  retorted  Pap  Himes  testily, 
"why  don't  you  wed  the  gal  and  be  done  with  it? 
You  wed  Johnnie  Consadine  and  get  that  writin', 
and  I'll  never  tell  on  you  'bout  the  old  man  and  such; 
and  you  and  me'll  share  the  mine." 

Shade  gave  him  a  black  look. 

"You're  a  good  talker,"  he  said  sententiously. 
"If  I  could  do  things  as  easy  as  you  can  tell  'em,  I'd 
be  president." 

"Huh!"  grunted  the  old  man.  "Marryin'  a  fool 
gal  —  or  any  other  woman  —  ain't  nothin'  to  do.  If 
I  was  your  age  I'd  have  her  Miz  Himes  before  sun 
down." 

"All  right,"  said  Buckheath,  "if  it's  so  damn'  easy 
done — this  here  marryin'  —  do  some  of  it  your 
self.  Thar's  Laurelly  Consadine;  she's  a  widow; 
and  more  kin  to  Pros  than  Johnnie  is.  You  go  up  in 
the  mountains  and  wed  her,  and  I'll  stand  by  ye  in 
the  business." 

A  slow  but  ample  grin  dawned  on  the  old  man's 
round,  foolish  face.  He  looked  admiringly  at  Shade. 

"By  Gosh!"  he  said  finally.  "That  ain't  no  bad 
notion,  neither.  'Course  I  can  do  it.  They  all  want 
to  wed.  And  thar's  Laurelly  —  light-minded  fool  - 


A  PATIENT  FOR  THE   HOSPITAL     185 

ain't  got  the  sense  she  was  born  with  —  up  thar  with 
out  Pros  nor  Johnnie  —  I  could  persuade  her  to  take 
off  her  head  and  play  pitch-ball  with  it  —  Lord,  yes!" 

"Well,  you've  bragged  about  enough,"  put  in 
Buckheath  grimly.  "You  git  down  in  the  collar  and 
pull." 

The  old  man  gave  him  no  heed.  He  was  still  grin 
ning  fatuously. 

"It  'minds  me  of  Zack  Shalliday,  and  the  way  he 
got  wedded,"  came  the  unctuous  chuckle.  "Zack 
was  a  man  'bout  my  age,  and  his  daughter  was  a-keepin' 
house  for  him.  She  was  a  fine  hand  to  work;  the  best 
butter  maker  on  the  Unakas;  Zack  always  traded  his 
butter  for  a  extry  price.  But  old  as  Sis  Shalliday 
was  —  she  must  'a'  been  all  of  twenty-seven  —  along 
comes  a  man  that  takes  a  notion  to  her.  She  named 
it  to  Zack.  'All  right,'  says  he,  'you  give  me  to-morrow 
to  hunt  me  up  one  that's  as  good  a  butter  maker  as 
you  air,  and  I've  got  no  objections.'  Then  he  took 
hisself  down  to  Preacher  Blaylock,  knowin'  in  reason 
that  preachers  was  always  hungry  for  weddin'  fees, 
and  would  hustle  round  to  make  one.  He  offered 
the  preacher  a  dollar  to  give  him  a  list  of  names  of 
single  women  that  was  good  butter  makers.  Blaylock 
done  so.  He'd  say,  'Now  this  'n's  right  fine-looking, 
but  I  ain't  never  tasted  her  butter.  Here's  one  that 
ain't  much  to  look  at,  but  her  butter  is  prime  —  jest 
like  your  gal's;  hit  allers  brings  a  leetle  extry  at  the 
store.  This  'n's  fat,  yet  I  can  speak  well  of  her  workin' 
qualifications.'  He  named  'em  all  out  to  Zack,  and 


186   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

Zack  had  his  say  for  each  one.  'The  fat  ones  is  easy 
keepers/  he  says  for  the  last  one,  'and  looks  don't 
cut  much  figger  in  this  business  —  it  all  depends  on 
which  one  makes  the  best  butter  anyhow/ 

"Well,  he  took  that  thar  string  o'  names,  and  he 
left.  'Long  about  sundown,  here  he  is  back  and 
hollerin'  at  the  fence.  'Come  out  here,  preacher  — 
I've  got  her.'  He  had  a  woman  in  his  buggy  that 
Blaylock  had  never  put  eyes  on  in  all  his  born  days. 
'Wouldn't  none  o'  them  I  sent  ye  to  have  ye?'  the 
preacher  asked  Zack  in  a  kind  of  whisper,  when  he 
looked  at  that  thar  snaggle-toothed,  cross-eyed  some 
body  that  Shalliday'd  fetched  back.  'I  reckon  they 
would,'  says  Zack.  '  I  reckon  any  or  all  of  'em  would 
'a'  had  me,'  he  says.  'I  had  only  named  it  to  three 
o'  the  four,  and  I  hadn't  closed  up  with  none  o'  them, 
becaze  I  wasn't  quite  satisfied  in  my  mind  about  the 
butter  makin'.  And  as  I  was  goin'  along  the  road 
toward  the  last  name  you  give  me,  I  come  up  with 
this  here  woman.  She  was  packin'  truck  down  to 
the  store  for  to  trade  it.  I  offered  her  a  lift  and  she 
rid  with  me  a  spell.  I  chanced  to  tell  her  of  what  I 
was  out  after,  and  she  let  on  that  she  was  a  widder, 
and  showed  me  the  butter  she  had  —  hit  was  all  made 
off  of  one  cow,  and  the  calf  is  three  months  old.  I 
wasn't  a-goin'  to  take  nobody's  word  in  such  a  matter, 
and  hauled  her  on  down  to  the  store  and  seed  the  store 
keeper  pay  her  extry  for  that  thar  butter  —  and  here 
we  air.  Tie  the  knot,  preacher;  yer  dollar  is  ready 
for  ye,  and  we  must  be  gittin'  along  home  —  it's  'most 


A  PATIENT  FOR  THE   HOSPITAL     187 

milkin'  time/  The  preacher  he  tied  the  knot,  and 
Shalliday  and  the  new  Miz.  Shalliday  they  got  along 
home."  The  old  man  chuckled  as  he  had  at  the  begin 
ning  of  this  tale. 

"Well,  that  was  business,"  agreed  Shade  impatiently. 
"When  are  you  goin'  to  start  for  Big  Unaka  ?" 

The    old    man    rolled    his    great    head    between    his 

O 

shoulders. 

"Ye-ah,"  he  assented;  "business.  But  it  was  bad 
business  for  Zack  Shalliday.  That  thar  woman  never 
made  a  lick  of  that  butter  she  was  a  packin'  to  the* 
settlement  to  trade  for  her  sister  that  was  one  o'  them 
widders  the  preacher  had  give  him  the  name  of. 
Seems  Shalliday's  woman  had  jest  come  in  a-visitin' 
from  over  on  Big  Smoky,  and  she  turned  out  to  be  the 
laziest,  no-accountest  critter  on  the  Unakas.  She 
didn't  know  which  end  of  a  churn-dasher  was  made 
for  use.  Aw  —  law  —  huh!  Business — there's  two 
kinds  of  business;  but  that  was  a  bad  business  for 
Zack  Shalliday.  I  reckon  I'll  go  up  on  Unaka  to-mor 
row,  if  Mavity  can  run  the  house  without  me." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

WEDDING    BELLS 

A  VINE    on    Mavity    Bence's    porch    turned    to 
blood    crimson.       Its  leaves  parted  from  the 
stem   in   the  gay   Autumn    wind,    and    sifted 
lightly  down  to  joint  he  painted  foliage  of  the  two  little 
maples  which  struggled  for  existence  against  an  adverse 
world,  crouching  beaten  and  torn  at  the  curb. 

In  these  days  Johnnie  used  to  leave  the  mill  in  the 
evening  and  go  directly  to  the  hospital.  Gray  Stoddard 
was  her  one  source  of  comfort  —  and  terror.  Uncle 
Pros's  injuries  brought  these  two  into  closer  relations 
than  anything  had  yet  done.  So  far,  Johnnie  had 
conducted  her  affairs  with  a  judgment  and  propriety 
extraordinary,  clinging  as  it  were  to  the  skirts  of  Lydia 
Sessions,  keeping  that  not  unwilling  lady  between  her 
and  Stoddard  always.  But  the  injured  man  took  a 
great  fancy  to  Gray.  Johnnie  he  had  forgotten; 
Shade  and  Pap  Himes  he  recognized  only  by  an  irrita 
tion  which  made  the  doctors  exclude  them  from  his 
presence;  but  something  in  Stoddard's  equable,  dis 
ciplined  personality,  appealed  to  and  soothed  Uncle 
Pros  when  even  Johnnie  failed. 

The  old  mountaineer  had  gone  back  to  childhood. 
He  would  lie  by  the  hour  murmuring  a  boy's  woods 

1 88 


WEDDING   BELLS  189 

lore  to  Gray  Stoddard,  communicating  deep  secrets 
of  where  a  bee  tree  might  be  found;  where,  known  only 
to  him,  there  was  a  deeply  hidden  spring  of  pure  free 
stone  water,  "so  cold  it'll  make  yo*  teeth  chatter"; 
and  which  one  of  old  Lead's  pups  seemed  likely  to 
turn  out  the  best  coon  dog. 

When  Stoddard's  presence  and  help  had  been  prof 
fered  to  herself,  Johnnie  had  not  failed  to  find  a  gracious 
way  of  declining  or  avoiding;  but  you  cannot  reprove 
a  sick  man  —  a  dying  man.  She  could  not  for  the  life 
of  her  find  a  way  to  insist  that  Uncle  Pros  make  less 
demand  on  the  young  mill  owner's  time. 

And  so  the  two  of  them  met  often  at  the  bedside, 
and  that  trouble  which  was  beginning  to  make  Johnnie's 
heart  like  lead  grew  with  the  growing  love  Gray  Stod 
dard  commanded.  She  told  herself  mercilessly  that 
it  was  presumption,  folly,  wickedness;  she  was  always 
going  to  be  done  with  it;  but,  once  more  in  his  presence, 
her  very  soul  cried  out  that  she  was  indeed  fit  at  least 
to  love  him,  if  not  to  hope  for  his  love  in  turn. 

Stoddard  himself  was  touched  by  the  old  man's 
fancy,  and  showed  a  devotion  and  patience  that  were 
characteristic. 

If  she  was  kept  late  at  the  hospital,  Mavity  put  by 
a  bite  of  cold  supper  for  her,  and  Mandy  always  waited 
to  see  that  she  had  what  she  wanted.  On  the  day 
after  Shade  Buckheath  and  Gideon  Himes  had  come 
to  their  agreement,  she  stopped  at  the  hospital  for  a 
briefer  stay  than  usual.  Her  uncle  was  worse,  and 
an  opiate  had  been  administered  to  quiet  him,  so  that 


1 9o   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

she  only  sat  a  while  at  the  bedside  and  finally  took  her 
way  homeward  in  a  state  of  utter  depression  for  which 
she  could  scarcely  account. 

It  was  dusk  —  almost  dark  —  when  she  reached  the 
gate,  and  she  noted  carelessly  a  vehicle  drawn  up  before 
it. 

"Johnnie,"  called  her  mother's  voice  from  the  back 
of  the  rickety  old  wagon  as  the  girl  was  turning  in 
toward  the  steps. 

"Sis'  Johnnie  —  Sis'  Johnnie!"  crowed  Deanie; 
and  then  she  was  aware  of  sober,  eleven-year-old  Milo 
climbing  down  over  the  wheel  and  trying  to  help 
Lissy,  while  Pony  got  in  his  way  and  was  gravely 
reproved.  She  ran  to  the  wheel  and  put  up  ready  arms. 

"Why,  honeys!"  she  exclaimed.  "How  come  you- 
all  never  let  me  know  to  expect  you  ?  Oh,  I'm  so  glad, 
mother.  I  didn't  intend  to  send  you  word  to  come; 
but  I  was  feeling  so  blue.  I  sure  wanted  to.  Maybe 
Uncle  Pros  might  know  you  —  or  the  baby  —  and 
it  would  do  him  good." 

She  had  got  little  Deanie  out  in  her  arms  now,  and 
stood  hugging  the  child,  bending  to  kiss  Melissa, 
finding  a  hand  to  pat  Milo's  shoulder  and  rub  Pony's 
tousled  poll. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad!  —  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you-all," 
she  kept  repeating.  "Who  brought  you  ?"  She  looked 
closely  at  the  man  on  the  driver's  seat  and  recognized 
Gideon  Himes. 

"Why,  Pap!"  she  exclaimed.  "I'll  never  forget 
you  for  this.  It  was  mighty  good  of  you." 


WEDDING   BELLS  191 

The  door  swung  open,  letting  out  a  path  of  light. 

"Aunt  Mavity!"  cried  the  girl.  "Mother  and  the 
children  have  come  down  to  see  me.  Isn't  it  fine  ?" 

Mavity  Bence  made  her  appearance  in  the  doorway, 
her  faded  eyes  so  reddened  with  weeping  that  she 
looked  like  a  woman  in  a  fever.  She  gulped  and 
stared  from  her  father,  where  in  the  shine  of  her 
upheld  lamp  he  sat  blinking  and  grinning,  to  Lau- 
rella  Consadine  in  a  ruffled  pink-and-white  lawn 
frock,  with  a  big,  rose-wreathed  hat  on  her  dark 
curls,  and  Johnnie  Consadine  with  the  children  cling 
ing  about  her. 

"Have  ye  told  her?"  she  gasped.  And  at  the  tone 
Johnnie  turned  quickly,  a  sudden  chill  falling  upon 
her  glowing  mood. 

"What's  the  matter?"  she  asked,  startled,  clutching 
the  baby  tighter  to  her,  and  conning  over  with  quick 
alarm  the  tow-heads  that  bobbed  and  surged  about 
her  waist.  "The  children  are  all  right  —  aren't 
they?" 

Milo  looked  up  apprehensively.  He  was  an  old- 
faced,  anxious-looking,  little  fellow,  already  beginning 
to  have  a  stoop  to  his  thin  shoulders  —  the  bend  of 
the  burden  bearer. 

"I  —  I  done  the  best  I  could,  Sis'  Johnnie,"  he 
hesitated  apologetically.  "You  wasn't  thar,  and  Unc' 
Pros  was  gone,  an'  I  thest  worked  the  farm  and  took 
care  of  mother  an'  the  little  'uns  best  I  knowed  how. 
But  when  she  —  when  he  —  oh,  I  wish't  you  and 
Unc'  Pros  had  been  home  to-day." 


192   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

Johnnie,  her  mind  at  rest  about  the  children,  turned 
to  her  mother. 

"Was  ma  sick?"  she  asked  sympathetically.  Then, 
noticing  for  the  first  time  the  unwonted  gaiety  of  Laur- 
ella's  costume,  the  glowing  cheeks  and  bright  eyes, 
she  smiled  in  relief. 

"  You  don't  look  sick.  My,  but  you're  fine !  You're 
as  spick  and  span  as  a  bride." 

The  old  man  bent  and  spat  over  the  wheel,  prepara 
tory  to  speaking,  but  his  daughter  took  the  words 
from  his  mouth. 

"She  is  a  bride,"  explained  Mavity  Bence  in  a 
flatted,  toneless  voice.  "Leastways,  Pap  said  he  was 
a-goin'  up  on  Unaka  for  to  wed  her  and  bring  her 
down  —  and  I  know  in  reason  she'd  have  him." 

Johnnie's  terror-stricken  eyes  searched  her  mother's 
irresponsible,  gypsy  face. 

"Now,  Johnnie,"  fretted  the  little  woman,  "how 
long  air  you  goin'  to  keep  us  standin'  here  in  the  road  ? 
Don't  you  think  my  frock's  pretty  ?  Do  they  make 
em  that  way  down  here  in  the  big  town  ?  I  bought 
this  lawn  at  Bledsoe,  with  the  very  first  money  you 
sent  up.  Ain't  you  a  bit  glad  to  see  us  ?" 

The  lip  trembled,  the  tragic  dark  brows  lifted  in 
their  familiar  slant. 

"Come  on  in  the  house,"  said  Johnnie  heavily,  and 
she  led  the  way  with  drooping  head. 

Called  by  the  unusual  disturbance,  Mandy  left  the 
supper  she  was  putting  on  the  table  for  Johnnie  and 
ran  into  the  front  hall.  Beulah  Catlett  and  one  or 


WEDDING   BELLS  193 

two  of  the  other  girls  had  crowded  behind  Mavity 
Bence's  shoulders,  and  were  staring.  Mandy  joined 
them  in  time  to  hear  the  conclusion  of  Mavity' s  explana 
tion. 

She  came  through  the  door  and  passed  the  new 
Mrs.  Himes  on  the  porch. 

"Why,  Johnnie  Consadine!"  she  cried.  "Is  that 
there  your  ma  ?" 

Johnnie  nodded.     She  was  past  speech. 

"Well,  I  vow!  I  should've  took  her  for  your  sister, 
if  any  kin.  Ain't  she  pretty?  Beulah  —  she's 
Johnnie's  ma,  and  her  and  Pap  has  just  been  wedded." 

She  turned  to  follow  Johnnie,  who  was  mutely 
starting  the  children  in  to  the  house. 

"Well,"  she  said  with  a  sigh,  "some  folks  gits  two, 
and  some  folks  don't  git  nary  one."  And  she  brought 
up  the  rear  of  the  in-going  procession. 

"Ain't  you  goin'  to  pack  your  plunder  in  ?"  inquired 
the  bridegroom  harshly,  almost  threateningly,  as  he 
pitched  out  upon  the  path  a  number  of  bundles  and 
boxes. 

"  I  reckon  they  won't  pester  it  till  you  git  back  from 
puttin'  up  the  nag,"  returned  Laurella  carelessly  as 
she  swung  her  light,  frilled  skirts  and  tripped  across  the 
porch.  "You  needn't  werry  about  me,"  she  called 
down  to  the  old  fellow  where  he  sat  speechlessly 
glaring.  "  Mavity'll  show  me  whar  I  can  sit,  and  git 
me  a  nice  cool  drink;  and  that's  all  I'll  need  for  one 
while." 

Pap  Himes's  mouth  was  open,  but  no  words  came. . 


i94   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

He  finally  shut  it  with  that  click  of  the  ill-fitting  false 
teeth  which  was  familiar  —  and  terrible  —  to  everybody 
at  the  boarding-house,  shook  out  the  lines  over  the  old 
horse,  and  jogged  away  into  the  dusk. 

"And  this  here's  the  baby,"  admired  Mandy,  kneeling 
in  front  of  little  Deanie,  when  the  newcomers  halted 
in  the  front  room.  "Why,  Johnnie  Consadine!  She 
don't  look  like  nothin'  on  earth  but  a  little  copy  of  you. 
If  she's  dispositioned  like  you,  I  vow  I'll  just  about 
love  her  to  death." 

Mavity  Bence  was  struggling  up  the  porch  steps 
loaded  with  the  baggage  of  the  newcomers. 

"  Better  leave  that  for  your  paw,"  the  bride  counselled 
her.  "It's  more  suited  to  a  man  person  to  lift  them 
heavy  things." 

But  Mavity  had  not  lived  with  Pap  Himes  for  nearly 
forty  years  without  knowing  what  was  suited  to  him, 
in  distinction,  perhaps,  from  mankind  in  general. 
She  made  no  reply,  but  continued  to  bring  in  the  bag 
gage,  and  Johnnie,  after  settling  her  mother  in  a  rocking- 
chair  with  the  cool  drink  which  the  little  woman  had 
specified,  hurried  down  to  help  her. 

"  Everybody  always  has  been  mighty  good  to  me  all 
my  life,"  Laurella  Himes  was  saying  to  Mandy,  Beulah 
and  the  others.  "I  reckon  they  always  will.  Uncle 
Pros  he  just  does  for  me  like  he  was  my  daddy,  and 
my  children  always  waited  on  me.  Johnnie's  the  best 
gal  that  ever  was,  ef  she  does  have  some  quare  notions." 

"Ain't  she?"  returned  Mandy  enthusiastically,  as 
Johnnie  of  the  "quare  notions"  helped  Mavity  Bence 


WEDDING   BELLS  195 

upstairs  with  the  one  small  trunk  belonging  to 
Laurella. 

"Look  out  for  that  trunk,  Johnnie,"  came  her 
mother's  caution,  with  a  girlish  ripple  of  laughter  in 
the  tones.  "Hit's  a  borried  one.  Now  don't  you 
roach  up  and  git  mad.  I  had  obliged  to  have  a  trunk, 
bein'  wedded  and  comin'  down  to  the  settlement 
this-a-way.  I  only  borried  Mildred  Faidley's.  She 
won't  never  have  any  use  for  it.  Evelyn  Toler  loaned 
me  the  trimmin'  o'  this  hat  —  ain't  it  sightly  ?" 

Johnnie's  distressed  eyes  met  the  pale  gaze  of  Aunt 
Mavity  across  the  little  oilcloth-covered  coffer. 

"  I  would  'a'  told  you,  Johnnie,"  said  the  poor  woman 
deprecatingly,  "  but  I  never  knowed  it  myself  till  late 
last  night,  and  I  hadn't  the  heart  to  name  it  at  break 
fast.  I  thort  I'd  git  a  chance  this  evenin',  but  they  come 
sooner'n  I  was  expectin'  'em." 

"  Never  mind,  Aunt  Mavity,"  said  Johnnie.  "  When 
I  get  a  little  used  to  it  I'll  be  glad  to  have  them  all  here. 
I  —  I  wish  Uncle  Pros  was  able  to  know  folks." 

The  children  were  fed,  Milo,  touchingly  subdued 
and  apologetic,  nestling  close  to  his  sister's  side 
and  whispering  to  her  how  he  had  tried  to  get 
ma  to  wait  and  come  down  to  the  Settlement, 
and  hungrily  begging  with  his  pathetic  childish  eyes 
for  her  to  say  that  this  thing  which  had  come  upon 
them  was  not,  after  all,  the  calamity  he  feared.  Snub- 
nosed,  nine-year-old  Pony,  whose  two  front  teeth  had 
come  in  quite  too  large  for  his  mouth,  Pony,  with  the 
quick-expanding  pupils,  and  the  temperament  that 


196   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

would  cope  ill  with  disaster,  addressed  himself  gaily 
to  his  supper  and  saw  no  sorrow  anywhere.  Little 
Melissa  was  half  asleep;  and  even  Deanie,  after  the 
first  outburst  of  greeting,  nodded  in  her  chair. 

"I  got  ready  for  'em,"  Mavity  told  Johnnie  in  an 
undertone,  after  her  father  returned.  "I  knowed  in 
reason  he'd  bring  her  back  with  him.  Pap  always 
has  his  own  way,  and  gits  whatever  he  wants.  I  'lowed 
you'd  take  the  baby  in  bed  with  you,  and  I  put  a 
pallet  in  your  room  for  Lissy." 

Johnnie  agreed  to  this  arrangement,  almost 
mechanically.  Is  it  to  be  wondered  at  that  her 
mind  was  already  busy  with  the  barrier  this  must  set 
between  herself  and  Gray  Stoddard  ?  She  had  never 
been  ashamed  of  her  origin  or  her  people;  but  this  - 
this  was  different. 

Next  morning  she  sent  word  to  the  mill  foreman  to  put 
on  a  substitute,  and  took  the  morning  that  she  might  go 
with  her  mother  to  the  hospital.  Passmore  was  asleep, 
and  they  were  not  allowed  to  disturb  him;  but  o .1  the 
steps  they  met  Gray  Stoddard,  and  he  stopped  so 
decidedly  to  speak  to  them  that  Johnnie  could  not 
exactly  run  away,  as  she  felt  like  doing. 

"Your  mother!"  echoed  Stoddard,  when  Johnnie 
had  told  him  who  the  visitor  was.  He  glanced  from 
the  tall,  fair-haired  daughter  to  the  lithe  little  gypsy 
at  her  side.  "Why,  she  looks  more  like  your  sister," 
he  said. 

Laurella's  white  teeth  flashed  at  this,  and  her 
big,  dark  eyes  glowed. 


WEDDING   BELLS  197 

"Johnnie's  such  a  serious-minded  person  that  she 
favours  older  than  her  years,"  the  mother  told  him. 
"Well,  I  give  her  the  name  of  the  dead,  and  they  say 
that  makes  a  body  solemn  like." 

It  was  very  evident  that  Stoddard  desired  to  detain 
them  in  conversation,  but  Johnnie  smilingly,  yet  with 
decision,  cut  the  interview  short. 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  hurried  me  a-past  that-a-way," 
the  little  mother  said  resentfully,  when  they  had  gone 
a  few  steps.  "I  wanted  to  stay  and  talk  to  the  gentle 
man,  if  you  didn't.  I  think  he's  one  of  the  nicest  per 
sons  I've  met  since  I've  been  in  Cottonville.  Mr. 
Gray  Stoddard  —  how  come  you  never  mentioned 
him  to  me  Johnnie  ?" 

She  turned  to  find  a  slow,  painful  blush  rising 
in  her  daughter's  face. 

"  I    don't    know,    ma,"    said    Johnnie    gently.     "  I 
reckon   it  was   because   I    didn't   seem   to   have   any 
concern  with  a  rich  gentleman  such  as  Mr.  Stoddard. 
He's  got  more  money  than  Mr.  Hardwick,  they  say  - 
more  than  anybody  else  in  Cottonville." 

"Has  he?"  inquired  Laurella  vivaciously.  "Well, 
money  or  no  money,  I  think  he's  mighty  nice.  Looks 
like  he  ain't  studying  as  to  whether  you  got  money  or 
not.  And  if  you  was  meaning  that  you  didn't  think 
yourself  fit  to  be  friends  with  such,  why  I'm  ashamed 
of  you,  Johnnie  Consadine.  The  Passmores  and  the 
Consadines  are  as  good  a  family  as  there  is  on  Unaka 
mountains.  I  don't  know  as  I  ever  met  up  with  any 
body  that  I  found  was  too  fine  for  my  company.  And 


198   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

whenever  your  Uncle  Pros  gets  well  and  finds  his  silver 
mine,  we'll  have  as  much  money  as  the  best  of  'em." 

The  tears  blinded  Johnnie  so  that  she  could  scarcely 
find  her  way,  and  the  voice  wherewith  she  would  have 
answered  her  mother  caught  in  her  throat.  She 
pressed  her  lips  hard  together  and  shook  her  head, 
then  laughed  out,  a  little  sobbing  laugh. 

"Poor  ma  —  poor  little  mother!"  she  whispered  at 
length.  "You  ain't  been  away  from  the  mountains 
as  I  have.  Things  are  —  well,  they're  a  heap  different 
here  in  the  Settlement." 

'They're  a  heap  nicer,"  returned  Laurella  blithely. 
"Well,  I'm  mighty  glad  I  met  that  gentleman  this 
morning.  Mr.  Himes  was  talking  to  me  of  Shade 
Buckheath  a-yesterday.  He  said  Shade  was  wishful 
to  wed  you,  Johnnie,  and  wanted  me  to  give  the  boy 
my  good  word.  I  told  him  I  wouldn't  say  anything  - 
and  then  afterward  I  was  going  to.  But  since  I've 
seen  this  gentleman,  and  know  that  his  likes  are 
friends  of  your'n,  well  —  I  -  -  Johnnie,  the  Buck- 
heaths  are  a  hard  nation  of  people,  and  that's  the  truth. 
If  you  wedded  Shade,  like  as  not  he'd  mistreat  you." 

"Oh  mother  —  don't!"  pleaded  Johnnie,  scarlet  of 
face,  and  not  daring  to  raise  her  eyes. 

"What  have  I  done  now?"  demanded  Laurella 
with  asperity. 

"You  mustn't  couple  my  name  with  Mr.  Stoddard's 
that  way,"  Johnnie  told  her.  "  He's  never  thought 
of  me,  except  as  a  poor  girl  who  needs  help  mighty 
bad;  and  he's  so  kind-hearted  and  generous  he's  ready 


WEDDING   BELLS  199 

to  do  for  each  and  every  that's  worthy  of  it.     But  - 
not   that   way  —  mother,   you    mustn't   ever   suppose 
for  a  minute  that  he'd  think  of  me  in  that  way." 

"Well,  I  wish't  I  may  never!"  Laurella  exclaimed. 
"Did  I  mention  any  particular  way  that  the  man  was 
supposed  to  be  thinking  about  you  ?  Can't  I  speak  a 
word  without  your  biting  my  head  off  for  it  ?  As  for 
what  Mr.  Gray  Stoddard  thinks  of  you,  let  me  tell  you, 
child,  a  body  has  only  to  see  his  eyes  when  he's  looking 
at  you." 

"Mother  —  Oh,   mother!"    protested   Johnnie. 

"Well,  if  he  can  look  that  way  I  reckon  I  can  speak 
of  it,"  returned  Laurella,  with  some  reason. 

"I  want  you  to  promise  never  to  name  it  again, 
even  to  me,"  said  Johnnie  solemnly,  as  they  came  to 
the  steps  of  the  big  lead-coloured  house.  "You  surely 
wouldn't  say  such  a  thing  to  any  one  else.  I  wish 
you'd  forget  it  yourself." 

"We-ell,"  hesitated  Laurella,  "if  you  feel  so  strong 
about  it,  I  reckon  I'll  do  as  you  say.  But  there  ain't 
anything  in  that  to  hinder  me  from  being  friends  with 
Mr.  Stoddard.  I  feel  sure  that  him  and  me  would 
get  on  together  fine.  He  favours  my  people,  the 
Passmores.  My  daddy  was  just  such  an  upstanding, 
dark-complected  feller  as  he  is.  He's  got  the  look  in 
the  eye,  too." 

Johnnie  gasped  as  she  remembered  that  the  grand 
father  of  whom  her  mother  spoke  was  Virgil  Passmore, 
and  called  to  mind  the  story  of  the  borrowed  wedding 
coat. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE    FEET    OF   THE    CHILDREN 

THE  mountain  people,  being  used  only  to  one 
class,  never  find  themselves  consciously  in 
the  society  of  their  superiors.  Johnnie  Con- 
sadine  had  been  unembarrassed  and  completely  mis 
tress  of  the  situation  in  the  presence  of  Charlie  Conroy, 
who  did  not  fail  after  the  Uplift  dance  to  make  some 
further  effort  to  meet  the  "big  red-headed  girl,"  as 
he  called  her.  She  was  aware  that  social  overtures 
from  such  a  person  were  not  to  be  received  by  her, 
and  she  put  them  aside  quite  as  though  she  had  been, 
according  to  her  own  opinion,  above  rather  than 
beneath  them.  The  lover-like  pretensions  of  Shade 
Buckheath,  a  man  dangerous,  remorseless,  as  careless 
of  the  rights  of  others  as  any  tiger  in  the  jungle,  she 
regarded  with  negligent  composure.  But  Gray  Stod- 
dard  —  ah,  there  her  treacherous  heart  gave  way,  and 
trembled  in  terror.  The  air  of  perfect  equality  he 
maintained  between  them,  his  attitude  of  intimacy, 
flattering,  almost  affectionate,  this  it  was  which  she 
felt  she  must  not  recognize. 

The  beloved  books,  which  had  seemed  so  many  steps 
upon  which  to  climb  to  a  world  where  she  dared 
acknowledge  her  own  liking  and  admiration  for  Stod- 


THE  FEET  OF  THE  CHILDREN      201 

dard,  were  now  laid  aside.  It  took  all  of  her  heart  and 
mind  and  time  to  visit  Uncle  Pros  at  the  hospital,  keep 
the  children  out  of  Pap's  way  in  the  house,  and  do 
justice  to  her  work  in  the  factory.  She  told  Gray, 
haltingly,  reluctantly,  that  she  thought  she  must  give 
up  the  reading  and  studying  for  a  time. 

"Not  for  long,  I  hope."  Stoddard  received  her 
decision  with  a  puzzled  air,  turning  in  his  fingers  the 
copy  of  "Walden"  which  she  was  bringing  back  to  him. 
"Perhaps  now  that  you  have  your  mother  and  the 
children  with  you,  there  will  be  less  time  for  this  sort 
of  thing  for  a  while,  but  you  haven't  a  mind  that  can 
enjoy  being  inactive.  You  may  think  you'll  give  it 
up;  but  study  —  once  you've  tasted  it  —  will  never 
let  you  alone." 

Johnnie  looked  up  at  him  with  a  weak  and  pitiful 
version  of  her  usual  beaming  smile. 

"I  reckon  you're  right,"  she  hesitated  finally,  in  a 
very  low  voice.  "But  sometimes  I  think  the  less  we 
know  the  happier  we  are." 

"How's  this?  How's  this?"  cried  Stoddard,  almost 
startled.  "Why,  Johnnie  —  I  never  expected  to  hear 
that  sort  of  thing  from  you.  I  thought  your  optimism 
was  as  deep  as  a  well,  and  as  wide  as  a  church." 

Poor  Johnnie  surely  had  need  of  such  optimism  as 
Stoddard  had  ascribed  to  her.  They  were  weary 
evenings  when  she  came  home  now,  with  the  November 
rain  blowing  in  the  streets  and  the  early-falling  dusk 
almost  upon  her.  It  was  on  a  Saturday  night,  and  she 
had  been  to  the  hospital,  when  she  got  in  to  find  Mandy, 


202   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

seated  in  the  darkest  corner  of  the  sitting  room,  with  a 
red  flannel  cloth  around  her  neck  —  a  sure  sign  that 
something  unfortunate  had  occurred,  since  the  tall 
woman  always  had  sore  throat  when  trouble  loomed 
large. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Johnnie,  coming  close 
and  laying  a  hand  on  the  bent  shoulder  to  peer  into  the 
drooping  countenance. 

"  Don't  come  too  nigh  me  —  you'll  ketch  it,"  warned 
Mandy  gloomily.  "A  so'  th'oat  is  as  ketchin'  as  small 
pox,  and  I  know  it  so  to  be,  though  they  is  them  that 
say  it  ain't.  When  mine  gits  like  this  I  jest  tie  it  up 
and  keep  away  from  folks  best  I  can.  I  hain't  dared 
touch  the  baby  sence  hit  began  to  hurt  me  this  a-way." 

"There's  something  besides  the  sore  throat,"  per 
sisted  Johnnie.  "Is  it  anything  I  can  help  you 
about?" 

"Now,  if  that  ain't  jest  like  Johnnie  Consadine!" 
apostrophized  Mandy.  "Yes,  there  is  somethin'  - 
not  that  I  keer."  She  tossed  her  poor  old  gray  head 
scornfully,  and  then  groaned  because  the  movement 
hurt  her  throat.  'That  thar  feisty  old  Sullivan  gave 
me  my  time  this  evenin'.  He  said  they  was  layin* 
off  weavers,  and  they  could  spare  me.  I  told  him,  well, 
I  could  spare  them,  too.  I  told  him  I  could  hire  in  any 
other  mill  in  Cottonville  befo'  workin'  time  Monday  — 
but  I'm  afeared  I  cain't."  Weak  tears  began  to  travel 
down  her  countenance.  "I  know  I  never  will  make 
a  fine  hand  like  you,  Johnnie,"  she  said  pathetically. 
"There  ain't  a  thing  in  the  mill  that  I  love  to  do  — 


203 

nary  thing.  I  can  tend  a  truck  patch  or  raise  a  field 
o*  corn  to  beat  anybody,  and  nobody  cain't  outdo  me 
with  fowls;  but  the  mill  - 

She  broke  off  and  sat  staring  dully  at  the  floor.  Pap 
Himes  had  stumped  into  the  room  during  the  latter 
part  of  this  conversation. 

"Lost  your  job,  hey  ?"  he  inquired  keenly. 

Mandy  nodded,  with  fearful  eyes  on  his  face. 

"Well,  you  want  to  watch  out  and  keep  yo'  board 
paid  up  here.  The  week  you  cain't  pay  —  out  you  go. 
I  reckon  I  better  trouble  you  to  pay  me  in  advance, 
unless'n  you've  got  some  kind  friend  that'll  stand  for 
you." 

Mandy's  lips  parted,  but  no  sound  came.  The  gaze 
of  absolute  terror  with  which  she  followed  the  old  man's 
waddling  bulk  as  he  went  and  seated  himself  in  front 
of  the  air-tight  stove,  was  more  than  Johnnie  could 
endure. 

"I'll  stand  for  her  board,   Pap,"   she  said  quietly. 

"Oh,  you  will,  will  ye?"  Pap  received  her  remark 
with  disfavour.  "Well,  a  fool  and  his  money  don't 
stay  together  long.  And  who'll  stand  for  you,  Johnnie 
Consadine  ?  Yo'  wages  ain't  a-goin'  to  pay  for  yo' 
livin'  and  Mandy's  too.  Ye  needn't  lay  back  on  bein' 
my  stepdaughter.  You  ain't  acted  square  by  me,  an'  I 
don't  aim  to  do  no  more  for  you  than  if  we  was  no  kin." 

"You  won't  have  to.  Mandy'll  get  a  place  next 
week  —  you  know  she  will,  Pap  —  an  experienced 
weaver  like  she  is.  I'll  stand  for  her." 

Himes  snorted.     Mandy  caught  at  Johnnie's  hand- 


204   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

and  drew  it  to  her,  fondling  it.  Her  round  eyes  were 
still  full  of  tears. 

"I  do  know  you're  the  sweetest  thing  God  ever 
made,"  she  whispered,  as  Johnnie  looked  down  at  her. 
"You  and  Deanie."  And  the  two  went  out  into  the 
dining  room  together. 

"Thar,"  muttered  Himes  to  Buckheath,  as  the 
latter  passed  through  on  his  way  to  supper;  "you  see 
whether  it  would  do  to  give  Johnnie  the  handlin'  o'  all 
that  thar  money  from  the  patent.  Why,  she'd  hand  it 
out  to  the  first  feller  that  put  up  a  poor  mouth  and  asked 
her  for  it.  You  heard  anything,  Buck?" 

Shade  nodded. 

"Come  down  to  the  works  with  me  after  supper. 
I've  got  something  to  show  you,"  he  said  briefly,  and 
Himes  understood  that  the  desired  letter  had  arrived. 

At  first  Laurella  Consadine  bloomed  like  a  late  rose 
in  the  town  atmosphere.  She  delighted  in  the  village 
streets.  She  was  as  wildly  exhilarated  as  a  child  when 
she  was  taken  on  the  trolley  to  Watauga.  With  strange, 
inherent  deftness  she  copied  the  garb,  the  hair  dressing, 
even  the  manner  and  speech,  of  such  worthy  models  as 
came  within  her  range  of  vision  —  like  her  daughter, 
she  had  an  eye  for  fitness  and  beauty;  that  which  was 
merely  fashionable  though  truly  inelegant,  did  not 
appeal  to  her.  She  was  swift  to  appreciate  the  change 
in  Johnnie. 

"You  look  a  heap  prettier,  and  act  and  speak  a 
heap  prettier  than  you  used  to  up  in  the  mountains," 
she  told  the  tall  girl.  "Looks  like  it  was  a  mighty 


THE   FEET  OF  THE   CHILDREN      205 

sensible  thing  for  you  to  come  down  here  to  the  Settle 
ment;  and  if  it  was  good  for  you,  I  don't  see  why  it 
wasn't  good  for  me  —  and  won't  be  for  the  rest  of  the 
children.  No  need  for  you  to  be  so  solemn  over  it." 

The  entire  household  was  aghast  at  the  bride's  atti 
tude  toward  her  old  husband.  They  watched  her  with 
the  fascinated  gaze  we  give  to  a  petted  child  encroaching 
upon  the  rights  of  a  cross  dog,  or  the  pretty  lady  with 
her  little  riding  whip  in  the  cage  of  the  lion.  She 
treated  him  with  a  kindly,  tolerant,  yet  overbearing 
familiarity  that  appalled.  She  knew  not  to  be 
frightened  when  he  clicked  his  teeth,  but  drew  up 
her  pretty  brows  and  fretted  at  him  that  she  wished 
he  wouldn't  make  that  noise  —  it  worried  her.  She 
tipped  the  sacred  yellow  cat  out  of  the  rocking-chair 
where  it  always  slept  in  state,  took  the  chair  her 
self,  and  sent  that  astonished  feline  from  the  room. 

It  was  in  Laurella's  evident  influence  that  Johnnie 
put  her  trust  when,  one  evening,  as  they  all  sat  in 
Sunday  leisure  in  the  front  room — most  of  the  girls 
being  gone  to  church  or  out  strolling  with  "company" 
-  Pap  Himes  broached  the  question  of  the  children 
p-oinp;  to  work  in  the  mill. 

o          o 

"They're  too  young,  Pap,"  Johnnie  said  to  him 
mildly.  "They  ought  to  be  in  school  this  winter." 

"They've  every  one,  down  to  Deanie,  had  mo'  than 
the  six  weeks  schoolin'  that  the  laws  calls  for,"  snarled 
Himes. 

"You  wasn't  thinking  of  putting  Deanie  in  the  mill 
—  not  Deanie  — was  you  ?"  asked  Johnnie  breathlessly. 


2o6   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

"Why  not?"  inquired  Himes.  "She'll  get  no  good 
runnin'  the  streets  here  in  Cottonville,  and  she  can  earn 
a  little  somethin'  in  the  mill.  I'm  a  old  man,  an 
sickly,  and  I  ain't  long  for  this  world.  If  them  chaps 
is  a-goin*  to  do  anything  for  me,  they'd  better  be  puttin' 
in  their  licks." 

Johnnie  looked  from  the  little  girl's  pink-and-white 
infantile  beauty  —  she  sat  with  the  child  in  her  lap  - 
to   the   old    man's   hulking,    powerful,   useless   frame. 
What  would  Deanie  naturally  be  expected  to  do  for 
her  stepfather  ? 

"Nobody's  asked  my  opinion,"  observed  Shade 
Buckheath,  who  made  one  of  the  family  group,  "but 
as  far  as  I  can  see  there  ain't  a  thing  to  hurt  young 
'uns  about  mill  work;  and  there  surely  ain't  any  good 
reason  why  they  shouldn't  earn  their  way,  same  as  we 
all  do.  I  reckon  they  had  to  work  back  on  Unaka. 
Goin'  to  set  'em  up  now  an  make  swells  of  'em  ?" 

Johnnie  looked  bitterly  at  him  but  made  no  reply. 

"They  won't  take  them  at  the  Hardwick  mill,"  she 
said  finally.  "  Mr.  Stoddard  has  enforced  the  rule  that 
they  have  to  have  an  affidavit  with  any  child  the  mill 
employs  that  it  is  of  legal  age;  and  there's  nobody 
going  to  swear  that  Deanie's  even  as  much  as  twelve 
years  old  —  nor  Lissy  —  nor  Pony  —  nor  Milo.  The 
oldest  is  but  eleven." 

Laurella  had  bought  a  long  chain  of  red  glass  beads 
with  a  heart-shaped  pendant.  This  trinket  occupied 
her  attention  entirely  while  her  daughter  and  hus 
band  discussed  the  matter  of  the  children's  future. 


THE   FEET  OF  THE   CHILDREN      207 

;  Johnnie,"  she  began  now,  apparently  not  having 
heard  one  word  that  had  been  said,  "did  you  ever  in 
your  life  see  anything  so  cheap  as  this  here  string  of 
beads  for  a  dime  ?  I  vow  I  could  live  and  die  in  that 
five-and-ten-cent  store  at  Watauga.  There  was  more 
pretties  in  it  than  I  could  have  looked  at  in  a  week. 
I'm  going  right  back  thar  Monday  and  git  me  them 
green  garters  that  the  gal  showed  me.  I  don't  know 
what  I  was  thinkin'  about  to  come  away  without  'em! 
They  was  but  a  nickel." 

Pap  Himes  looked  at  her,  at  the  beads,  and  gave  the 
fierce,  inarticulate,  ludicrously  futile  growl  of  a 
thwarted,  perplexed  animal. 

"Mother,"  appealed  Johnnie  desperately,  "do  you 
want  the  children  to  go  into  the  mill  ?" 

"  I  don't  know  but  they  might  as  well  —  for  a  spell," 
said  Laurella  Himes,  vainly  endeavouring  to  look 
grown-up,  and  to  pretend  that  she  was  really  the  head 
of  the  family.  "They  want  to  go,  and  you've  done 
mighty  well  in  the  mill.  If  it  wasn't  for  my  health,  I 
reckon  I  might  go  in  and  try  to  learn  to  weave,  myself. 
But  there  —  I  came  a-past  with  Mandy  t'other  evenin' 
when  she  was  out,  and  the  noise  of  that  there  factory 
is  enough  for  me  from  the  outside  —  I  never  could 
stand  to  be  in  it.  Looks  like  such  a  racket  would 
drive  me  plumb  crazy." 

Pap  stared  at  his  bride  and  clicked  his  teeth  with 
the  gnashing  sound  that  overawed  the  others.  He 
drew  his  shaggy  brows  in  an  attempt  to  look  masterful. 

"Well,  ef  you  cain't  tend  looms,  I  reckon  you  cart' 


2o8   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

take  Mavity's  place  in  the  house  here,  and  let  her  keep 
to  the  weavin'  stiddier.  She'll  just  about  lose  her  job 
if  she  has  to  be  out  and  in  so  much  as  she  has  had  to  be 
with  me  here  of  late.'* 

"I  will  when  I  can,"  said  Laurella,  patronizingly. 
"Sometimes  I  get  to  feeling  just  kind  of  restless  and 
no-account,  and  can't  do  a  stroke  of  work.  When  I'm 
that-a-way  I  go  to  bed  and  sleep  it  off,  or  get  out  and 
go  somewheres  that'll  take  my  mind  from  my  troubles. 
Hit's  by  far  the  best  way." 

Once  more  Pap  looked  at  her,  and  opened  and  shut 
his  mouth  helplessly.  Then  he  turned  sullenly  to  his 
stepdaughter,  grumbling. 

"You  hear  that!  She  won't  work,  and  you  won't 
give  me  your  money.  The  children  have  obliged  to 
bring  in  a  little  something  —  that's  the  way  it  looks  to 
me.  If  the  mills  on  the  Tennessee  side  is  too  choicy  to 
take  'em  —  and  I  know  well  as  you,  Johnnie,  that  they 
air;  their  man  Connors  told  me  so  —  I  can  hire  'em 
over  at  the  Victory,  on  the  Georgy  side." 

The  Victory!  A  mill  notorious  in  the  district  for 
its  ancient,  unsanitary  buildings,  its  poor  management, 
its  bad  treatment  of  its  hands.  Yes,  it  was  true  that 
at  the  Victory  you  could  hire  out  anything  that  could 
walk  and  talk.  Johnnie  caught  her  breath  and  hugged 
the  small  pliant  body  to  her  breast,  feeling  with  a 
mighty  throb  of  fierce,  mother-tenderness,  the  poor 
little  ribs,  yet  cartilagenous;  the  delicate,  soft  frame 
for  which  God  and  nature  demanded  time,  and  chance 
to  grow  and  strengthen.  Yet  she  knew  if  she  gave 


THE   FEET  OF  THE   CHILDREN       209 

up  her  wages  to  Pap  she  would  be  no  better  ofF- 
indeed,  she  would  be  helpless  in  his  hands;  and  the 
sum  of  them  would  not  cover  what  the  children  all 
together  could  earn. 

"Oh,  Lord!     To  work  in  the  Victory !"  she  groaned. 

"Now,  Johnnie,"  objected  her  mother,"  don't  you 
get  meddlesome  just  because  you're  a  old  maid.  Your 
great-aunt  Betsy  was  meddlesome  disposed  that-a-way. 
I  reckon  single  women  as  they  get  on  in  years  is  apt 
so  to  be.  Every  one  of  these  children  has  been  prom 
ised  that  they  should  be  let  to  work  in  the  mill.  They've 
been  jest  honin'  to  do  it  ever  since  you  came  down  and 
got  your  place.  Deanie  was  scared  to  death  for  fear 
they  wouldn't  take  her.  Don't  you  be  meddlesome." 

"Yes,  and  I'm  goin'  to  buy  me  a  gun  and  a  nag  with 
my  money  what  I  earn,"  put  in  Pony  explosively. 
"  'Course  I'll  take  you-all  to  ride."  He  added  the 
saving  clause  under  Mile's  reproving  eye.  "Sis' 
Johnnie,  don't  you  want  me  to  earn  money  and  buy 
a  hawse  and  a  gun,  and  a  —  and  most  ever' thing  else  ?" 

Johnnie  looked  down  into  the  blue  eyes  of  the  little 
lad  who  had  crept  close  to  her  chair.  What  he  would 
earn  in  the  factory  she  knew  well  —  blows,  curses,  evil 
knowledge. 

"If  they  should  go  to  the  Victory,  I'd  be  mighty 
proud  to  do  all  I  could  to  look  after  'em,  Johnnie," 
spoke  Mandy  from  the  shadows,  where  she  sat  on  the 
floor  at  Laurella  Consadine's  feet,  working  away 
with  a  shoe-brush  and  cloth  at  the  cleaning  and  polish 
ing  of  the  little  woman's  tan  footwear.  "Ye  know  I'm 


210   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

a-gittin'  looms  thar  to-morrow  mornin'.  Yes,  I  am," 
in  answer  to  Johnnie's  deprecating  look.  "I'd  ruther 
do  it  as  to  run  round  a  week  —  or  a  month  — 'mongst 
the  better  ones,  huntin'  a  job,  and  you  here  standin' 
for  my  board/* 

Till  late  that  night  Johnnie  laboured  with  her 
mother  and  stepfather,  trying  to  show  them  that  the 
mill  was  no  fit  place  for  the  children.  Milo  was  all  too 
apt  for  such  a  situation,  the  very  material  out  of  which 
a  cotton  mill  moulds  its  best  hands  and  its  worst  citizens. 
Pony,  restless,  emotional,  gifted  and  ambitious,  crav 
ing  his  share  of  the  joy  of  life  and  its  opportunities, 
would  never  make  a  mill  hand;  but  under  the  pressure 
of  factory  life  his  sister  apprehended  that  he  would 
make  a  criminal. 

"Uh-huh,"  agreed  Pap,  drily,  when  she  tried  to  put 
something  of  this  into  words.  "I  spotted  that  feller  for 
a  rogue  and  a  shirk  the  minute  I  laid  eyes  on  him. 
The  mill'll  tame  him.  The  mill'll  make  him  git  down 
and  pull  in  the  collar,  I  reckon.  Women  ain't  fitten  to 
bring  up  chillen.  A  widder's  boys  allers  goes  to  ruin. 
Why,  Johnnie  Consadine,  every  one  of  them  chaps  is 
plumb  crazy  to  work  in  the  mill  —  just  like  you  was  - 
and  you're  workin'  in  the  mill  yourself.  What  makes 
you  talk  so  foolish  about  it  ?" 

Laurella  nodded  an  agreement,  looking  more  than 
usually  like  a  little  girl  playing  dolls. 

"  I  reckon  Mr.  Himes  knows  best,  Johnnie,  honey," 
was  her  reiterated  comment. 

Cautiously  Johnnie  approached  the  subject  of  pay; 


THE   FEET  OF  THE   CHILDREN      211 

her  stepfather  had  already  demanded  her  wages,  and 
expressed  unbounded  surprise  that  she  was  not  willing 
to  pass  over  the  Saturday  pay-envelope  to  him  and  let 
him  put  the  money  in  the  bank  along  with  his  other 
savings.  Careful  calculation  showed  that  the  four 
children  could,  after  a  few  weeks  of  learning,  prob 
ably  earn  a  little  more  than  she  could;  and  in  any  case 
Himes  put  it  as  a  disciplinary  measure,  a  way  of  life 
selected  largely  for  the  good  of  the  little  ones. 

"If  you  just  as  soon  let  me,"  she  said  to  him  at  last, 
"I  believe  I'll  take  them  over  to  the  Victory  myself 
to-morrow  morning." 

She  had  hopes  of  telling  their  ages  bluntly  to  the  mill 
superintendent  and  having  them  refused. 

Pap  agreed  negligently;  he  had  no  liking  for  early 
rising.  And  thus  it  was  that  Johnnie  found  herself 
at  eight  o'clock  making  her  way,  in  the  midst  of  the 
little  group,  toward  the  Georgia  line  and  the  old  Victory 
plant,  which  all  good  workers  in  the  district  shunned  if 
possible. 

As  she  set  her  foot  on  the  first  plank  of  the  bridge  she 
heard  a  little  rumble  of  sound,  and  down  the  road  came 
a  light,  two-seated  vehicle,  with  coloured  driver,  and 
Miss  Lydia  Sessions  taking  her  sister's  children  out  for 
an  early  morning  drive.  There  was  a  frail,  long- 
visaged  boy  of  ten  sitting  beside  his  aunt  in  the  back, 
with  a  girl  of  eight  tucked  between  them.  The 
nurse  on  the  front  seat  held  the  youngest  child,  a  little 
girl  about  Deanie's  age. 

As  they  came  nearer,  the  driver  drew  up,  evidently 


212   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

in  obedience  to  Miss  Sessions's  command,  and  she 
leaned  forward  graciously  to  speak  to  Johnnie. 

"Good  morning,  John,"  said  Miss  Sessions  as  the 
carriage  stopped.  "Whose  children  are  those?" 

"They  are  my  little  sisters  and  brothers,"  responded 
Johnnie,  looking  down  with  a  very  pale  face,  and  busy 
ing  herself  with  Deanie's  hair. 

"And  you're  taking  them  over  to  the  mill,  so  that 
they  can  learn  to  be  useful.  How  nice  that  is!"  Lydia 
smiled  brightly  at  the  little  ones  —  her  best  charity- 
worker's  smile. 

"No,"  returned  Johnnie,  goaded  past  endurance, 
"I'm  going  over  to  see  if  I  can  get  them  to  refuse  to 
take  this  one."  And  she  bent  and  picked  Deanie  up, 
holding  her,  the  child's  head  dropped  shyly  against  her 
breast,  the  small  flower-like  face  turned  a  bit  so  that 
one  blue  eye  might  investigate  the  carriage  and  those 
in  it.  "  Deanie's  too  little  to  work  in  the  mill,"  Johnnie 
went  on.  "They  have  night  turn  over  there  at  the 
Victory  now,  and  it'll  just  about  make  her  sick." 

Miss  Lydia  frowned. 

"Oh,  John,  I  think  you  are  mistaken,"  she  said 
coldly.  "The  work  is  very  light  —  you  know  that. 
Young  people  work  a  great  deal  harder  racing  about 
in  their  play  than  at  anything  they  have  to  do  in  a 
spooling  room —  I'm  sure  my  nieces  and  nephews  do. 
And  in  your  case  it  is  necessary  and  right  that  the 
younger  members  of  the  family  should  help.  I  think 
you  will  find  that  it  will  not  hurt  them." 

Individuals  who  work  in  cotton  mills,  and  are  not 


THE   FEET  OF  THE  CHILDREN      213 

adults,  are  never  alluded  to  as  children.  It  is  an 
offense  to  mention  them  so.  They  are  always  spoken 
of  —  even  those  scarcely  more  than  three  feet  high 
—  as  "young  people." 

Miss  Sessions  had  smiled  upon  the  piteous  little 
group  with  a  judicious  mixture  of  patronage  and  mild 
reproof,  and  her  driver  had  shaken  the  lines  over  the 
backs  of  the  fat  horses  preparatory  to  moving  on,  when 
Stoddard's  car  turned  into  the  street  from  the  corner 
above. 

"  Wait,  Junius.  Dick  is  afraid  of  autos,"  cautioned 
Miss  Lydia  nervously. 

Junius  grinned  respectfully,  while  bay  Dick  dozed 
and  regarded  the  approaching  car  philosophically.  As 
they  stood,  they  blocked  the  way,  so  that  Gray  was 
obliged  to  slow  down  and  finally  to  stop.  He  raised 
his  hat  ceremoniously  to  both  groups.  His  pained  eyes 
went  past  Lydia  Sessions  as  though  she  had  been  but  the 
painted  representation  of  a  woman,  to  fasten  themselves 
on  Johnnie  where  she  stood,  her  tall,  deep-bosomed 
figure  relieved  against  the  shining  water,  the  flaxen- 
haired  child  on  her  breast,  the  little  ones  huddled  about 
her. 

That  Johnnie  Consadine  should  have  fallen  away  all 
at  once  from  that  higher  course  she  had  so  eagerly 
chosen  and  so  resolutely  maintained,  had  been  to  Gray 
a  disappointment  whose  depth  and  bitterness  some 
what  surprised  him.  In  vain  he  recalled  the  fact 
that  all  his  theories  of  life  were  against  forcing  a 
culture  where  none  was  desired;  he  went  back  to 


214   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

it  with  grief — he  had  been  so  sure  that  Johnnie  did 
love  the  real  things,  that  hers  was  a  nature  which 
not  only  wished,  but  must  have,  spiritual  and  mental 
food.  Her  attitude  toward  himself  upon  their  few 
meetings  of  late  had  confirmed  a  certain  distrust  of  her, 
if  one  may  use  so  strong  a  word.  She  seemed  afraid, 
almost  ashamed  to  face  him.  What  was  it  she  was 
doing,  he  wondered,  that  she  knew  so  perfectly  he 
would  disapprove  ?  And  then,  with  the  return  of  the 
books,  the  dropping  of  Johnnie's  education,  came  the 
abrupt  end  of  those  informal  letters.  Not  till  they 
ceased,  did  he  realize  how  large  a  figure  they  had  come 
to  cut  in  his  life.  Only  this  morning  he  had  taken  them 
out  and  read  them  over,  and  decided  that  the  girl  who 
wrote  them  was  worth  at  least  an  attempt  toward  an 
explanation  and  better  footing.  He  had  decided  not 
to  give  her  up.  Now  she  confirmed  his  worst  appre 
hensions.  At  his  glance,  her  face  was  suffused 
with  a  swift,  distressed  red.  She  wondered  if  he  yet 
knew  of  her  mother's  marriage.  She  dreaded  the  time 
when  she  must  tell  him.  With  an  inarticulate  murmur 
she  spoke  to  the  little  ones,  turned  her  back  and  hurried 
across  the  bridge. 

"Is  Johnnie  putting  those  children  in  the  mill?" 
asked  Stoddard  half  doubtfully,  as  his  gaze  followed 
them  toward  the  entrance  of  the  Victory. 

"I  believe  so,"  returned  Lydia,  smiling.  "We  were 
just  speaking  of  how  good  it  was  that  the  cotton  mills 
gave  an  opportunity  for  even  the  smaller  ones  to  help, 
at  work  which  is  within  their  capacity." 


THE   FEET  OF  THE   CHILDREN      215 

"Johnnie  Consadine  said  that?"  inquired  Gray, 
startled.  "Why  is  she  taking  them  over  to  the 
Victory?"  And  then  he  answered  his  own  question. 
"She  knows  very  well  they  are  below  the  legal  age  in 
Tennessee/' 

Lydia  Sessions  trimmed  instantly. 

"That  must  be  it,"  she  said.  "I  wondered  a  little 
that  she  seemed  not  to  want  them  in  the  same  factory 
that  she  is  in.  But  I  remember  Brother  Hartley  said 
that  we  are  very  particular  at  our  mill  to  hire  no  young 
people  below  the  legal  age.  That  must  be  it." 

Stoddard  looked  with  reprehending  yet  still  incredu 
lous  eyes,  to  where  Johnnie  and  her  small  following 
disappeared  within  the  mill  doors.  Johnnie  —  the 
girl  who  had  written  him  that  pathetic  little  letter  about 
the  children  in  her  room,  and  her  growing  doubt  as  to 
the  wholesomeness  of  their  work;  the  girl  who  had 
read  the  books  he  gave  her,  and  fed  her  understanding 
on  them  till  she  expressed  herself  logically  and  lucidly 
on  the  economic  problems  of  the  day  —  that,  for  the 
sake  of  the  few  cents  they  could  earn,  she  should  put  the 
children,  whom  he  knew  she  loved,  into  slavery,  seemed 
to  him  monstrous  beyond  belief.  Why,  if  this  were 
true,  what  a  hypocrite  the  girl  was!  As  coarse  and 
unfeeling  as  the  rest  of  them.  Yet  she  had  some  shame 
left;  she  had  blushed  to  be  caught  in  the  act  by  him. 
It  showed  her  worse  than  those  who  justified  this  thing, 
the  enormity  of  which  she  had  seemed  to  understand 
well. 

"You  mustn't  blame  her  too  much,"  came  Lydia 


216   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

Sessions's  smooth  voice.  "  John's  mother  is  a  widow, 
and  girls  of  that  age  like  pretty  clothes  and  a  good  time. 
Some  people  consider  John  very  handsome,  and  of 
course  with  an  ignorant  young  woman  of  that  class, 
flattery  is  likely  to  turn  the  head.  I  think  she  does  as 
well  as  could  be  expected.5' 


CHAPTER  XVI 

BITTER   WATERS 

JOHNNIE  had  a  set  of  small  volumes  of  English 
verse,  extensively  annotated  by  his  own  hand, 
which  Stoddard  had  brought  to  her  early  in 
their  acquaintance,  leaving  it  with  her  more  as  a  gift 
than  as  a  loan.  She  kept  these  little  books  after  all 
the  others  had  gone  back.  She  had  read  and  reread 
them  —  cullings  from  Chaucer,  from  Spenser,  from 
the  Elizabethan  lyrists,  the  border  balladry,  fierce, 
tender,  oh,  so  human  —  till  she  knew  pages  of  them 
by  heart,  and  their  vocabulary  influenced  her  own, 
their  imagery  tinged  all  her  leisure  thoughts.  It 
seemed  to  her,  whenever  she  debated  returning  them, 
that  she  could  not  bear  it.  She  would  get  them  out 
and  sit  with  one  of  them  open  in  her  hands,  not  reading, 
but  staring  at  the  pages  with  unseeing  eyes,  passing 
her  fingers  over  it,  as  one  strokes  a  beloved  hand,  or 
turning  through  each  book  only  to  find  the  pencilled 
words  in  the  margins.  She  would  be  giving  up  part 
of  herself  when  she  took  these  back. 

Yet  it  had  to  be  d(jne,  and  one  miserable  morn 
ing  she  made  them  all  into  a  neat  package,  intend 
ing  to  carry  them  to  the  mill  and  place  them  on 
Stoddard's  desk  thus  early,  when  nobody  would  be 

217 


2i8   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

in  the  office.  Then  the  children  came  in;  Deanie  was 
half  sick;  and  in  the  distress  of  getting  the  ailing  child 
comfortably  into  her  own  bed,  Johnnie  forgot  the 
books.  Taking  them  in  at  noon,  she  met  Stoddard 
himself. 

"I've  brought  you  back  your  —  those  little  books 
of  Old  English  Poetry,"  she  said,  with  a  sudden  con 
striction  in  her  throat,  and  a  quick  burning  flush  that 
suffused  brow,  cheek  and  neck. 

Stoddard  looked  at  her;  she  was  thinner  than  she 
had  been,  and  otherwise  showed  the  marks  of  misery 
and  of  factory  life.  The  sight  was  almost  intolerable 
to  him.  Poor  girl,  she  herself  was  suffering  cruelly 
enough  beneath  the  same  yoke  she  had  helped  to  lay 
on  the  children. 

"Are  you  really  giving  up  your  studies  entirely?" 
he  asked,  in  what  he  tried  to  make  a  very  kindly  voice. 
He  laid  his  hand  on  the  package  of  books.  "I  wonder 
if  you  aren't  making  a  mistake,  Johnnie.  You  look 
as  though  you  were  working  too  hard.  Some  things 
are  worth  more  than  money  and  getting  on  in  the 
world." 

Johnnie  shook  her  head.  For  the  moment  words 
were  beyond  her.  Then  she  managed  to  say  in  a  fairly 
composed  tone. 

"There  isn't  any  other  way  for  me.  I  think  some 
times,  Mr.  Stoddard,  when  a  body  is  born  to  a  hard 
life,  all  the  struggling  and  trying  just  makes  it  that 
much  harder.  Maybe  when  the  children  get  a  little 
older  I'll  have  more  chance." 


BITTER  WATERS  219 

The  statement  was  wistfully,  timidly  made;  yet  to 
Gray  Stoddard  it  seemed  a  brazen  defence  of  her 
present  course.  It  pierced  him  that  she  on  whose 
nobility  of  nature  he  could  have  staked  his  life,  should 
justify  such  action. 

"Yes,"  he  said  with  quick  bitterness,  "they  might 
be  able  to  earn  more,  of  course,  as  time  goes  on." 
It  was  a  cruel  speech  between  two  people  who  had 
discussed  this  feature  of  industrial  life  as  these  had; 
even  Stoddard  had  no  idea  how  cruel. 

For  a  dizzy  moment  the  girl  stared  at  him,  then, 
though  her  flushed  cheeks  had  whitened  pitifully  and 
her  lip  trembled,  she  answered  with  bravely  lifted  head. 

"  I  thank  you  very  much  for  all  the  help  you've  been 
to  me,  Mr.  Stoddard.  What  I  said  just  now  didn't 
look  as  though  I  appreciated  it.  I  ask  your  pardon 
for  that.  I  aim  to  do  the  best  I  can  for  the  children. 
And  I  —  thank  you." 

She  turned  and  was  gone,  leaving  him  puzzled  and 
with  a  sore  ache  at  heart. 

Winter  came  on,  wet,  dark,  cheerless,  in  the  shack 
ling,  half-built  little  village,  and  Johnnie  saw  for  the 
first  time  what  the  distress  of  the  poor  in  cities  is.  A 
temperature  which  would  have  been  agreeable  in  a 
drier  climate,  bit  to  the  bone  in  the  mist-haunted 
valleys  of  that  mountain  region.  The  houses  were 
mostly  mere  board  shanties,  tightened  by  pasting 
newspapers  over  the  cracks  inside,  where  the  women 
of  the  family  had  time  for  such  work;  and  the  heating 
apparatus  was  generally  a  wood-burning  cook-stove, 


220   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

with  possibly  an  additional  coal  heater  in  the  front  room 
which  could  be  fired  on  Sundays,  or  when  the  family 
was  at  home  to  tend  it. 

All  through  the  bright  autumn  days,  Laurella  Himes 
had  hurried  from  one  new  and  charming  sensation  or 
discovery  to  another;  she  was  like  the  butterflies  that 
haunt  the  banks  of  little  streams  or  wayside  pools  at 
this  season,  disporting  themselves  more  gaily  even  than 
the  insects  of  spring  in  what  must  be  at  best  a  briefer 
glory.  When  the  weather  began  to  be  chilly,  she 
complained  of  a  pain  in  her  side. 

"Hit  hurts  me  right  there,"  she  would  say  piteously, 
taking  Johnnie's  hand  and  laying  it  over  the  left  side 
of  her  chest.  "  My  feet  haven't  been  good  and  warm 
since  the  weather  turned.  I  jest  cain't  stand  these 
here  old  black  boxes  of  stoves  they  have  in  the  Settle 
ment.  If  I  could  oncet  lay  down  on  the  big  hearth  at 
home  and  get  my  feet  warm,  I  jest  know  my  misery 
would  leave  me." 

At  first  Pap  merely  grunted  over  these  homesick  repin- 
ings;  but  after  a  time  he  began  to  hang  about  her  and 
offer  counsel  which  was  often  enough  peevishly  received. 

"No,  I  ain't  et  anything  that  disagreed  with  me," 
Laurella  pettishly  replied  to  his  well-meant  inquiries. 
"You're  thinkin'  about  yo'se'f.  I  never  eat  more  than 
is  good  for  me,  nor  anything  that  ain't  jest  right.  Hit 
ain't  my  stomach.  Hit's  right  there  in  my  side.  Looks 
like  hit  was  my  heart,  an'  I  believe  in  my  soul  it  is. 
Oh,  law,  if  I  could  oncet  lay  down  befo'  a  nice,  good 
hickory  fire  and  get  my  feet  warm!" 


BITTER  WATERS  221 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that,  while  everybody  in  the 
boarding-house  looked  on  amazed,  almost  aghast, 
Gideon  Himes  withdrew  from  the  bank  such  money 
as  was  necessary,  and  had  a  chimney  built  at  the  side 
of  the  fore  room  and  a  broad  hearth  laid.  He  begged 
almost  tearfully  for  a  small  grate  which  should  burn 
the  soft  bituminous  coal  of  the  region,  and  be  much 
cheaper  to  install  and  maintain.  But  Laurella  turned 
away  from  these  suggestions  with  the  hopeless,  pliable 
obstinacy  of  the  weak. 

"  I  wouldn't  give  the  rappin'  o'  my  finger  for  a  nasty 
little  smudgy,  smoky  grate  fire,"  she  declared  rebel- 
liously,  thanklessly.  "A  hickory  log-heap  is  what  I 
want,  and  if  I  cain't  have  that,  I  reckon  I  can  jest  die 
without  it." 

"Now,  Laurelly  —  now  Laurelly,"  Pap  quavered 
in  tones  none  other  had  ever  heard  from  him,  "don't 
you  talk  about  dyin'.  You  look  as  young  as  Johnnie 
this  minute.  I'll  git  you  what  you  want.  Lord,  I'll 
have  Dawson  build  the  chimbley  big  enough  for  you  to 
keep  house  in,  if  them's  yo'  ruthers." 

It  was  almost  large  enough  for  that,  and  the  great 
load  of  hickory  logs  which  Himes  hauled  into  the  yard 
from  the  neighbouring  mountain-side  was  cut  to  length. 
Fire  was  kindled  in  the  new  chimney;  it  drew  per 
fectly;  and  Pap  himself  carried  Laurella  in  his  arms 
and  laid  her  on  some  quilts  beside  the  hearthstone, 
demanding  eagerly,  "Thar  now  —  don't  that  make 
you  feel  better  ? " 

"Uh-huh."     The    ailing    woman    turned    restlessly 


222   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

on  her  pallet.  The  big,  awkward,  ill-favoured  old 
man  stood  with  his  disproportionately  long  arms 
hanging  by  his  sides,  staring  at  her,  unaware  that  his 
presence  half  undid  the  good  the  leaping  flames  were 
doing  her. 

"I  wish't  Uncle  Pros  was  sitting  right  over  there, 
t'other  side  the  fire,"  murmured  Laurella  dreamily. 
"How  is  Pros,  Johnnie?" 

For  nobody  understood,  as  the  crazed  man  in  the 
hospital  might  have  done,  that  Laurella's  bodily  ill 
ness  was  but  the  cosmic  despair  of  the  little  girl  who 
has  broken  her  doll.  It  had  been  the  philosophy  of 
this  sun-loving,  butterfly  nature  to  turn  her  back  on 
things  when  they  got  too  bad  and  take  to  her  bed  till, 
in  the  course  of  events,  they  bettered  themselves.  But 
now  she  had  emerged  into  a  bleak  winter  world  where 
Uncle  Pros  was  not,  where  Johnnie  was  powerless, 
and  where  she  had  been  allowed  by  an  unkind  Provi 
dence  to  work  havoc  with  her  own  life  and  the  lives 
of  her  little  ones;  and  her  illness  was  as  the  tears  of 
the  girl  with  a  shattered  toy. 

The  children  in  their  broken  shoes  and  thin,  ill- 
selected  clothing,  shivered  on  the  roads  between  house 
and  mill,  and  gave  colour  to  the  statement  of  many 
employers  that  they  were  better  off  in  the  thoroughly 
warmed  factories  than  at  home.  But  the  factories 
were  a  little  too  thoroughly  warmed.  The  operatives 
sweated  under  their  tasks  and  left  the  rooms,  with  their 
temperature  of  eighty-five,  to  come,  drenched  with 
perspiration,  into  the  chill  outside  air.  The  colds 


BITTER  WATERS  223 

which  resulted  were  always  supposed  to  be  caught  out 
of  doors.  Nobody  had  sufficient  understanding  of 
such  matters  to  suggest  that  the  rebreathed,  super 
heated  atmosphere  of  the  mill  room  was  responsible. 

Deanie,  who  had  never  been  sick  a  day  in  her  life, 
took  a  heavy  cold  and  coughed  so  that  she  could  scarcely 
get  any  sleep.  Johnnie  was  desperately  anxious,  since 
the  lint  of  the  spinning  room  immediately  irritated 
the  little  throat,  and  perpetuated  the  cold  in  a  steady, 
hacking  cough,  that  cotton-mill  workers  know  well. 
Pony  was  from  the  first  insubordinate  and  well-nigh 
incorrigible  —  in  short,  he  died  hard.  He  came  to 
Johnnie  again  and  again  with  stories  of  having  been 
cursed  and  struck.  She  could  only  beg  him  to  be  good 
and  do  what  was  demanded  without  laying  himself 
liable  to  punishment.  Milo,  the  serious-faced  little 
burden  bearer,  was  growing  fast,  and  lacked  stamina. 
Beneath  the  cotton-mill  regime,  his  chest  was  getting 
dreadfully  hollow.  He  was  all  too  good  a  worker, 
and  tried  anxiously  to  make  up  for  his  brother's 
shortcomings. 

"Pony,  he's  a  little  feller,"  Milo  would  say  pitifully. 
"  He  ain't  nigh  as  old  as  I  am.  It  comes  easier  to  me 
than  what  it  does  to  him  to  stay  in  the  house  and  tend 
my  frames,  and  do  like  I'm  told.  If  the  bosses  would 
call  me  when  he  don't  do  to  suit  'em,  I  could  always 
get  him  to  mind." 

Lissy  had  something  of  her  mother's  shining  vitality, 
but  it  dimmed  woefully  in  the  rough-and-ready  clatter 
and  slam  of  the  big  Victory  mill. 


224   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

The  children  had  come  from  the  sunlit  heights  and 
free  air  of  the  Unakas.  Their  play  had  been  always 
out  of  doors,  on  the  mosses  under  tall  trees,  where 
fragrant  balsams  dropped  cushions  of  springy  needles 
for  the  feet;  their  labour,  the  gathering  of  brush  and 
chips  for  the  fire  in  winter,  the  dropping  corn,  and, 
with  the  older  boys,  the  hoeing  of  it  in  spring  and 
summer  —  all  under  God's  open  sky.  They  had  been 
forced  into  the  factory  when  nothing  but  places  on 
the  night  shift  could  be  got  for  them.  Day  work 
was  promised  later,  but  the  bitter  winter  wore  away, 
and  still  the  little  captives  crept  over  the  bridge  in  the 
twilight  and  slunk  shivering  home  at  dawn.  Johnnie 
made  an  arrangement  to  get  off  from  her  work  a  little 
earlier,  and  used  to  take  the  two  girls  over  herself;  but 
she  could  not  go  for  them  in  the  morning.  One  evening 
about  the  holidays,  miserably  wet,  and  offering  its 
squalid  contrast  to  the  season,  Johnnie,  plodding  along 
between  the  two  little  girls,  with  Pony  and  Milo  follow 
ing,  met  Gray  Stoddard  face  to  face.  He  halted  uncer 
tainly.  There  was  a  world  of  reproach  in  his  face, 
and  Johnnie  answered  it  with  eyes  of  such  shame  and 
contrition  as  convinced  him  that  she  knew  well  the 
degradation  of  what  she  was  doing. 

"You  need  another  umbrella,"  he  said  abruptly, 
putting  down  his  own  as  he  paused  under  the  store 
porch  where  a  boy  stood  at  the  curb  with  his  car,  hood 
on,  prepared  for  a  trip  in  to  Watauga. 

"I  lost  our'n,"  ventured  Pony.  "It  don't  seem  fair 
that  Milo  has  to  get  wet  because  I'm  so  bad  about 


BITTER  WATERS  225 

losing  things,  does  it?"  And  he  smiled  engagingly 
up  into  the  tall  man's  face -- Johnnie's  own  eyes, 
large-pupilled,  black-lashed,  full  of  laughter  in  their 
clear  depths.  Gray  Stoddard  stared  down  at  them 
silently  for  a  moment.  Then  he  pushed  the  handle  of 
his  umbrella  into  the  boy's  grimy  little  hand. 

"  See  how  long  you  can  keep  that  one,"  he  said  kindly. 
"  It's  marked  on  the  handle  with  my  name;  and  maybe  if 
you  lost  it  somebody  might  bring  it  back  to  you.'* 

Johnnie  had  turned  away  and  faltered  on  a  few  paces 
in  a  daze  of  humiliation  and  misery. 

"Sis'  Johnnie  —  oh,  Sis'  Johnnie!"  Pony  called  after 
her,  flourishing  the  umbrella.  "Look  what  Mr. 
Stoddard  give  Milo  and  me."  Then,  in  sudden  con 
sternation  as  Milo  caught  his  elbow,  he  whirled  and 
offered  voluble  thanks.  "I'm  a  goin'  to  earn  a  whole 
lot  of  money  and  pay  back  the  trouble  I  am  to  my  folks," 
he  confided  to  Gray,  hastily.  "I  didn't  know  I  was 
such  a  bad  feller  till  I  came  down  to  the  Settlement. 
Looks  like  I  cain't  noways  behave.  But  I'm  goin' 
to  earn  a  big  heap  of  money,  an'  buy  things  for  Milo 
an*  maw  an'  the  girls.  Only  now  they  take  all  I  can 
earn  away  from  me." 

There  was  a  warning  call  from  Johnnie,  ahead  in  the 
dusk  somewhere;  and  the  little  fellow  scuttled  away 
toward  the  Victory  and  a  night  of  work. 

Spring  came  late  that  year,  and  after  it  had  given 
a  hint  of  relieving  the  misery  of  the  poor,  there  fol 
lowed  an  Easter  storm  which  covered  all  the  new-made 
gardens  with  sleet  and  sent  people  shivering  back  to 


226   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

their  winter  wear.  Deanie  had  been  growing  very 
thin,  and  the  red  on  her  cheeks  was  a  round  spot  of 
scarlet.  Laurella  lay  all  day  and  far  into  the  night 
on  her  pallet  of  quilts  before  the  big  fire  in  the  front 
room,  spent,  inert,  staring  at  the  ceiling,  entertaining 
God  knows  what  guests  of  terror  and  remorse.  Noth 
ing  distressing  must  be  brought  to  her.  Coming  home 
from  work  once  at  dusk,  Johnnie  found  the  two  little 
girls  on  the  porch,  Deanie  crying  and  Lissy  trying  to 
comfort  her. 

"  I  thest  cain't  go  to  that  old  mill  to-night,  Sis'  John 
nie,"  the  little  one  pleaded.  "Looks  like  I  thest  cain't." 

"I  could  tell  Mr.  Reardon,  and  he'd  put  a  substitute 
on  to  tend  her  frames,"  Lissy  spoke  up  eagerly.  "You 
ask  Pap  Himes  will  he  let  us  do  that,  Sis'  Johnnie." 

Johnnie  went  past  her  mother,  who  appeared  to  be 
dozing,  and  into  the  dining  room,  where  Himes  was. 
He  had  promised  to  do  some  night  work,  setting  up  new 
machines  at  the  Victory,  and  he  was  in  that  uncertain 
humour  which  the  prospect  of  work  always  produced. 
Gideon  Himes  was  an  old  man,  pestered,  as  he  himself 
would  have  put  it,  by  the  mysterious  illness  of  his  young 
wife,  fretted  by  the  presence  of  the  children,  no  doubt 
in  a  measure  because  he  felt  himself  to  be  doing  an  ill 
part  by  them.  His  grumpy  silence  of  other  days,  his 
sardonic  humour,  gave  place  to  hypochondriac  com 
plainings  and  outbursts  of  fierce  temper.  Pony  had 
hurt  his  foot  in  a  machine  at  the  factory  and  it  required 
daily  dressing.  Johnnie  understood  from  the  sounds 
which  greeted  her  that  the  sore  foot  was  being  bandaged. 


BITTER  WATERS  227 

"Hold  still,  cain't  ye?'*  growled  Himes.  "I  ain't 
a-hurtin'  ye.  Now  you  set  in  to  bawl  and  I'll  give  ye 
somethin'  to  bawl  for  —  hear  me?" 

The  old  man  was  skilful  with  hurts,  but  he  was  using 
such  unnecessary  roughness  in  this  case  as  set  the  plucky 
little  chap  to  sobbing,  and,  just  as  Johnnie  entered  the 
room,  got  him  heavy-handed  punishment  for  it.  It  was 
an  unfortunate  time  to  bring  up  the  question  of  Deanie; 
yet  it  must  be  settled  at  once. 

"Pap,"  said  the  girl,  urgently,  "the  baby  ain't  fit 
to  go  to  the  mill  to-night  —  if  ever  she  ought.  You 
said  that  you'd  get  day  work  for  them  all.  If  you 
won't  do  that,  let  Deanie  stay  home  for  a  spell.  She 
sure  enough  isn't  fit  to  work." 

Himes  faced  his  stepdaughter  angrily. 

"When  I  say  a  child's  fitten  to  work  —  it's  fitten 
to  work,"  he  rounded  on  her.  "I  hain't  axed  your 
opinion  —  have  I  ?  No.  Well,  then,  keep  it  to  your 
self  till  it  is  axed  for.  You  Pony,  your  foot's  done 
and  ready.  You  get  yourself  off  to  the  mill,  or  you'll 
be  docked  for  lost  time." 

The  little  fellow  limped  sniffling  out;  Johnnie  reached 
down  for  Deanie,  who  had  crept  after  her  to  hear  how 
her  cause  went.  It  was  evident  that  sight  of  the  child 
lingering  increased  Pap's  anger,  yet  the  elder  sister 
gathered  up  the  ailing  little  one  in  her  strong  arms  and 
tried  again. 

"Pap,  I'll  pay  you  for  Deanie's  whole  week's  work 
if  you'll  just  let  her  stay  home  to-night.  I'll  pay  you 
the  money  now." 


228   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

"All  right,"  Pap  stuck  out  a  ready,  stubbed  palm, 
and  received  in  it  the  silver  that  was  the  price  of  the 
little  girl's  time  for  a  week.  He  counted  it  over  before 
he  rammed  it  down  in  his  pocket.  Then,  "You  can 
pay  me,  and  she  can  go  to  the  mill,  'caze  your  wages 
ought  to  come  to  me  anyhow,  and  it  don't  do  chaps 
like  her  no  good  to  be  muchin'  'em  all  the  time.  Would 
you  ruther  have  her  go  before  I  give  her  a  good  beatin' 
or  after?"  and  he  looked  Johnnie  fiercely  in  the  eyes. 

Johnnie  looked  back  at  him  unflinching.  She  did 
not  lack  spirit  to  defy  him.  But  her  mother  was  this 
man's  wife;  the  children  were  in  their  hands.  Devoted, 
high-couraged  as  she  was,  she  saw  no  way  here  to 
fight  for  the  little  ones.  To  her  mother  she  could  not 
appeal;  she  must  have  support  from  outside. 

"Never  you  mind,  honey,"  she  choked  as  she  clasped 
Deanie's  thin  little  form  closer,  and  the  meagre  small 
arms  went  round  her  neck.  "Sister'll  find  a  way. 
You  go  on  to  the  mill  to-night,  and  sister'll  find  some 
body  to  help  her,  and  she'll  come  there  and  get  you 
before  morning." 

When  the  pitiful  little  figure  had  lagged  away  down 
the  twilight  street,  holding  to  Lissy's  hand,  limping  on 
sore  feet,  Johnnie  stood  long  on  the  porch  in  the  dark 
with  gusts  of  rain  beating  intermittently  at  the  lattice 
beside  her.  Her  hands  were  wrung  hard  together. 
Her  desperate  gaze  roved  over  the  few  scattered  lights 
of  the  little  village,  over  the  great  flaring,  throbbing 
mills  beyond,  as  though  questioning  where  she  could 
seek  for  assistance.  Paying  money  to  Pap  Himes 


BITTER  WATERS  229 

did  no  good.  So  much  was  plain.  She  had  always 
been  afraid  to  begin  it,  and  she  realized  now  that  the 
present  outcome  was  what  she  had  apprehended. 
Uncle  Pros,  the  source  of  wisdom  for  all  her  childish 
days,  was  in  the  hospital,  a  harmless  lunatic.  Of 
late  the  old  man's  bodily  health  had  mended  suddenly, 
almost  marvellously;  but  he  remained  vacant,  childish 
in  mind,  and  so  far  the  authorities  had  retained  him, 
hoping  to  probe  in  some  way  to  the  obscure,  moving 
cause  of  his  malady.  Twice  when  she  spoke  to  her 
mother  of  late,  being  very  desperate,  Laurella  had  said 
peevishly  that  if  she  were  able  she'd  get  up  and  leave 
the  house.  Plainly  to-night  she  was  too  sick  a  woman 
to  be  troubled.  As  Johnnie  stood  there,  Shade  Buck- 
heath  passed  her,  going  out  of  the  house  and  down  the 
street  toward  the  store.  Once  she  might  have  thought 
of  appealing  to  him;  but  now  a  sure  knowledge  of 
what  his  reply  would  be  forestalled  that. 

There  remained  then  what  the  others  called  her 
"  swell  friends."  Gray  Stoddard  —  the  thought 
brought  with  it  an  agony  from  which  she  flinched. 
But  after  all,  there  was  Lydia  Sessions.  She  was  sure 
Miss  Sessions  meant  to  be  kind;  and  if  she  knew  that 
Deanie  was  really  sick  -  — .  Yes,  it  would  be  worth 
while  to  go  to  her  with  the  whole  matter. 

At  the  thought  she  turned  hesitatingly  toward  the 
door,  meaning  to  get  her  hat,  and  —  though  she  had 
formulated  no  method  of  appeal  —  to  hurry  to  the 
Hardwick  house  and  at  least  talk  with  Miss  Sessions 
and  endeavour  to  enlist  her  help. 


230   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

But  the  door  opened  before  she  reached  it, 
and  Mavity  Bence  stood  there,  in  her  face  the  deadly 
weariness  of  all  woman's  toil  and  travail  since  the  fall. 
Johnnie  moved  to  her  quickly,  putting  a  hand  on  her 
shoulder,  remembering  with  swift  compunction  that 
the  poor  woman's  burdens  were  trebled  since  Laurella 
lay  ill,  and  Pap  gave  up  so  much  of  his  time  to  hanging 
anxiously  about  his  young  wife. 

"  What  is  it,  Aunt  Mavity  ? "  she  asked.  "  Is  anything 
the  matter  ? " 

"I  hate  to  werry  ye,  Johnnie,"  said  the  other's 
deprecating  voice;  "but  looks  like  I've  jest  got  obliged 
to  have  a  little  help  this  evenin'.  I'm  plumb  dead 
on  my  feet,  and  there's  all  the  dishes  to  do  and  a  stack 
of  towels  and  things  to  rub  out."  Her  dim  gaze  ques 
tioned  the  young  face  above  her  dubiously,  almost 
desperately.  The  little  brass  lamp  in  her  hand  made 
a  pitiful  wavering. 

"Of  course  I  can  help  you.  I'd  have  been  in  before 
this,  only  I  —  I  —  was  kind  of  worried  about  some 
thing  else,  and  I  forgot,"  declared  Johnnie,  strengthen 
ing  her  heart  to  endure  the  necessary  postponement 
of  her  purpose. 

She  went  into  the  kitchen  with  Mavity  Bence,  and 
the  two  women  worked  there  at  the  dishes,  and  washing 
out  the  towels,  till  after  nine  o'clock,  Johnnie's  anxiety 
and  distress  mounting  with  every  minute  of  delay. 
At  a  little  past  nine,  she  left  poor  Mavity  at  the  door 
of  that  wretched  place  the  poor  woman  called  her 
room,  looked  quietly  in  to  see  that  her  mother  seemed 


BITTER  WATERS  '231 

to  sleep,  got  her  hat  and  hurried  out,  goaded  by  a  seem 
ingly  disproportionate  fever  of  impatience  and  anxiety. 
She  took  her  way  up  the  little  hill  and  across  the  slope 
to  where  the  Hardwick  mansion  gleamed,  many- 
windowed,  gay  with  lights,  behind  its  evergreens. 

When  she  reached  the  house  itself  she  found  an 
evening  reception  going  forward  —  the  Hardwicks 
were  entertaining  the  Lyric  Club.  She  halted  outside, 
debating  what  to  do.  Could  she  call  Miss  Lydia  from 
her  company  to  listen  to  such  a  story  as  this  ?  Was 
it  not  in  itself  almost  an  offence  to  bring  these  things 
before  people  who  could  live  as  Miss  Lydia  lived  ? 
Somebody  was  playing  the  violin,  and  Johnnie  drew 
nearer  the  window  to  listen.  She  stared  in  at  the 
beautiful  lighted  room,  the  well-dressed,  happy  people. 
Suddenly  she  caught  sight  of  Gray  Stoddard  standing 
near  the  girl  who  was  playing,  a  watchful  eye  upon  her 
music  to  turn  it  for  her.  She  clutched  the  window- 
sill  and  stood  choking  and  blinded,  fighting  with  a 
crowd  of  daunting  recollections  and  miserable  appre 
hensions.  The  young  violinist  was  playing  Schubert's 
Serenade.  From  the  violin  came  the  cry  of  hungry 
human  love  demanding  its  mate,  questing,  praying, 
half  despairing,  and  yet  wooing,  seeking  again. 

Johnnie's  piteous  gaze  roved  over  the  well-beloved 
lineaments.  She  noted  with  a  passion  of  tenderness 
the  turn  of  head  and  hand  that  were  so  familiar  to  her, 
and  so  dear.  Oh,  she  could  never  hate  him  for  it,  but 
it  was  hard  —  hard  —  to  be  a  wave  in  the  ocean  of 
toil  that  supported  the  galleys  of  such  as  these! 


232   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

It  began  to  rain  again  softly  as  she  stood  there, 
scattered  drops  falling  on  her  bright  hair,  and  she 
gathered  her  dress  about  her  and  pressed  close  to  the 
window  where  the  eaves  of  the  building  sheltered  her, 
forcing  herself  to  look  in  and  take  note  of  the  difference 
between  those  people  in  there  and  her  own  lot  of  life. 
This  was  not  usually  Johnnie's  way.  Her  unfailing 
optimism  prompted  her  always  to  measure  the  distance 
below  her,  and  be  glad  of  having  climbed  so  far,  rather 
than  to  dim  her  eyes  with  straining  them  toward  what 
was  above.  But  now  she  marked  mercilessly  the 
Jight,  yet  subdued,  movements,  the  deference  expressed 
when  one  of  these  people  addressed  another;  and  Gray 
Stoddard  at  the  upper  end  of  the  room  was  easily  the 
most  marked  figure  in  it.  Who  was  she  to  think 
she  might  be  his  friend  when  all  this  beautiful  world 
of  ease  and  luxury  and  fair  speech  was  open  to  him  ? 

Like  a  sword  flashed  back  to  her  memory  of  the 
children.  They  were  being  killed  in  the  mills,  while 
she  wasted  her  thoughts  and  longings  on  people  who 
would  laugh  if  they  knew  of  her  presumptuous  devotion. 

She  turned  with  a  low  exclamation  of  astonishment, 
when  somebody  touched  her  on  the  shoulder. 

"Is  you  de  gal  Miss  Lyddy  sont  for?"  inquired 
the  yellow  waitress  a  bit  sharply. 

"No  —  yes  —  I  don't  know  whether  Miss  Sessions 
sent  for  me  or  not,"  Johnnie  halted  out;  "  but,"  eagerly, 
"I  must  see  her.  I've — Cassy.  I've  got  to  speak 
to  her  right  now." 

Cassy    regarded    the    newcomer    rather    scornfully. 


BITTER  WATERS  233 

Yet  everybody  liked  Johnnie,  and  the  servant  eventually 
put  off  her  design  of  being  impressive  and  said  in  a 
fairly  friendly  manner: 

"You  couldn't  noways  see  her  now.  I  couldn't 
disturb  her  whilst  she's  got  company  —  without  you 
want  to  put  on  this  here  cap  and  apron  and  come 
he'p  me  sarve  the  refreshments.  Dey  was  a  gal 
comin'  to  resist  me,  but  she  ain't  put  in  her  disappear 
ance  yet.  Ain't  no  time  for  foolin',  dis  ain't." 

Johnnie  debated  a  moment.  A  servant's  livery 
-  but  Deanie  was  sick  and  -  — .  With  a  sudden,  im 
pulsive  movement,  and  somewhat  to  Cassy's  surprise, 
Johnnie  followed  into  the  pantry,  seized  the  proffered 
cap  and  apron  and  proceeded  to  put  them  on. 

"  I've  got  to  see  Miss  Sessions,"  she  repeated,  more 
to  herself  than  to  the  negress.  "  Maybe  what  I  have 
to  say  will  only  take  a  minute.  I  reckon  she  won't 
mind,  even  if  she  has  got  company.  It  —  well,  I've 
got  to  see  her  some  way."  And  taking  the  tray  of  frail, 
dainty  cups  and  saucers  Cassy  brought  her,  she  started 
with  it  to  the  parlour. 

The  music  was  just  dying  down  to  its  last  wail  when 
Gray  looked  up  and  caught  sight  of  her  coming.  His 
mind  had  been  full  of  her.  To  him  certain  pieces 
of  music  always  meant  certain  people,  and  the  Serenade 
could  bring  him  nothing  but  Johnnie  Consadine's 
face.  His  startled  eyes  encountered  with  distaste  the 
cap  pinned  to  her  hair,  descended  to  the  white  apron 
that  covered  her  black  skirt,  and  rested  in  astonishment 
on  the  tray  that  held  the  coffee,  cream  and  sugar. 


234   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

"  Begin  here,"  Cassie  prompted  her  assistant,  and 
Johnnie,  stopping,  offered  her  tray  of  cups. 

Gray's  indignant  glance  went  from  the  girl  herself 
to  his  hostess.  What  foolery  was  this  ?  Why  should 
Johnnie  Consadine  dress  herself  as  a  servant  and  wait 
on  Lydia  Sessions's  guests  ? 

Before  the  two  reached  him,  he  turned  abruptly 
and  went  into  the  library,  where  Miss  Sessions  stood 
for  a  moment  quite  alone.  Her  face  brightened; 
he  had  sought  her  society  very  much  less  of  late.  She 
looked  hopefully  for  a  renewal  of  that  earlier  companion 
ship  which  seemed  by  contrast  almost  intimate. 

"Have  you  hired  Johnnie  Consadine  as  a  waitress  ?" 
Stoddard  asked  her  in  a  non-committal  voice.  "I 
should  have  supposed  that  her  place  in  the  mill  would 
pay  her  more,  and  offer  better  prospects." 

"No  —  oh,  no,"  said  Miss  Sessions,  startled,  and 
considerably  disappointed  at  the  subject  he  had 
selected  to  converse  upon. 

"  How  does  she  come  to  be  here  with  a  cap  and 
apron  on  to-night?"  pursued  Stoddard,  with  an  edge 
to  his  tone  which  he  could  not  wholly  subdue. 

"I  really  don't  understand  that  myself,"  Lydia 
Sessions  told  him.  "I  made  no  arrangement  with 
her.  I  expected  to  have  a  couple  of  negresses  —  they're 
much  better  servants,  you  know.  Of  course  when  a 
girl  like  John  gets  a  little  taste  of  social  contact  and 
recognition,  she  may  go  to  considerable  lengths  to 
gratify  her  desire  for  it.  No  doubt  she  feels  proud 
of  forcing  herself  in  this  evening;  and  then  of  course 


BITTER  WATERS  235 

she  knows  she  will  be  well  paid.  She  seems  to  be  doing 
nicely,"  glancing  between  the  portieres  where  Johnnie 
bent  before  one  guest  or  another,  offering  her  tray 
of  cups.  "  I  really  haven't  the  heart  to  reprove  her." 

"Then  I  think  I  shall,"  said  Stoddard  with  sudden 
resolution.  "If  you  don't  mind,  Miss  Sessions,  would 
you  let  her  come  in  and  talk  to  me  a  little  while,  as  soon 
as  she  has  finished  passing  the  coffee  ?  I  —  really 
it  seems  to  me  that  this  is  outrageous.  Johnnie  is 
a  girl  of  brains  and  abilities,  and  we  who  have  her  true 
welfare  at  heart  should  see  that  she  doesn't  —  in  her 
youth  and  ignorance  —  fall  into  such  errors  as  this." 

"Oh,  if  you  like,  I'll  talk  to  her  myself,"  said  Miss 
Lydia  smoothly.  The  conversation  was  not  so  different 
from  others  that  she  and  Stoddard  had  held  con 
cerning  this  girl's  deserts  and  welfare.  She  added, 
after  an  instant's  pause,  -speaking  quickly,  with 
heightened  colour,  and  a  little  nervous  catch  in  her 
voice,  "  I'll  do  my  best.  I  —  I  don't  want  to  speak 
harshly  of  John,  but  I  must  in  truth  say  that  she's 
the  one  among  my  Uplift  Club  girls  that  has  been 
least  satisfactory  to  me." 

"In  what  way?"  inquired  Stoddard  in  an  even, 
quiet  tone. 

"Well,  I  should  be  a  little  puzzled  to  put  it  into 
words,"  Miss  Sessions  answered  him  with  a  deprecating 
smile;  "and  yet  it's  there  —  the  feeling  that  John 
Consadine  is  —  I  hate  to  say  it  —  ungrateful." 

"Ungrateful,"  repeated  her  companion,  his  eyes 
steadily  on  Miss  Sessions's  face.  "To  leave  Johnnie 


236   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

Consadine  out  of  the  matter  entirely,  what  else  do 
you  expect  from  any  of  your  protegees  ?  What  else 
can  any  one  expect  who  goes  into  what  the  modern 
world  calls  charitable  work?" 

Miss  Sessions  studied  his  face  in  some  bewilderment. 
Was  he  arraigning  her,  or  sympathizing  with  her  ? 
He  said  no  more.  He  left  upon  her  the  onus  of  further 
speech.  She  must  try  for  the  right  note. 

"I  know  it,"  she  fumbled  desperately.  "And 
isn't  it  disappointing  ?  You  do  everything  you  pos 
sibly  can  for  people  and  they  seem  to  dislike  you  for 
it." 

"They  don't  merely  seem  to,"  said  Stoddard, 
almost  brusquely,  "they  do  dislike  and  despise  you, 
and  that  most  heartily.  It  is  as  certain  a  result  as  that 
two  and  two  make  four.  You  have  pauperized  and 
degraded  them,  and  they  hate  you  for  it." 

Lydia  Sessions  shrank  back  on  the  seat,  and  stared 
at  him,  her  hand  before  her  open  mouth. 

"Why,  Mr.  Stoddard!"  she  ejaculated  finally.  "I 
thought  you  were  fully  in  sympathy  with  my  Uplift 
work.  You — you  certainly  let  me  think  so.  If 
you  despised  it,  as  you  now  say,  why  did  you  help  me 
and  —  and  all  that  ?" 

Stoddard  shook  his  head. 

"No,"    he    demurred    a    little    wearily.      "I    don't 
despise  you,  nor  your  work.     As  for  helping  you  - 
I  dislike  lobster,  and  yet  I  conscientiously  provide  you 
with  it  whenever  we  are  where  the  comestible  is  served, 
because  I  know  you  like  it." 


BITTER  WATERS  237 

"Mr.  Stoddard,"  broke  in  Lydia  tragically,  "that 

is  frivolous!     These  are  grave  matters,  and  I  thought 

—  oh,  I  thought  certainly  —  that  I  was  deserving  your 

good  opinion  in  this  charitable  work  if  ever  I  deserved 

such  a  thing  in  my  life." 

"Oh  —  deserved!"  repeated  Stoddard,  almost  impa 
tiently.  "No  doubt  you  deserve  a  great  deal  more 
than  my  praise;  but  you  know  —  do  you  not  ?  —  that 
people  who  believe  as  I  do,  regard  that  sort  of  philan 
thropy  as  a  barrier  to  progress;  and,  really  now,  I 
think  you  ought  to  admit  that  under  such  circumstances 
I  have  behaved  with  great  friendliness  and  self-control." 

The  words  were  spoken  with  something  of  the  old 
teasing  intonation  that  had  once  deluded  Lydia  Sessions 
into  the  faith  that  she  held  a  relation  of  some  intimacy 
to  this  man.  She  glanced  at  him  fleetingly;  then, 
though  she  felt  utterly  at  sea,  made  one  more  desperate 
effort. 

"  But  I  always  went  first  to  you  when  I  was  raising 
money  for  my  Uplift  work,  and  you  gave  to  me  more 
liberally  than  anybody  else.  Jerome  never  approved 
of  it.  Hartley  grumbled,  or  laughed  at  me,  and  came 
reluctantly  to  my  little  dances  and  receptions.  I 
sometimes  felt  that  I  was  going  against  all  my  world  - 
except  you.  I  depended  upon  your  approval.  I 
felt  that  you  were  in  full  sympathy  with  me  here,  if 
nowhere  else." 

She  looked  so  disproportionately  moved  by  the 
matter  that  Stoddard  smiled  a  little. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said  at  last.     "I  see  now  that  I 


238   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

have  been  taking  it  for  granted  all  along  that  you 
understood  the  reservation  I  held  in  regard  to  this 
matter." 

"You  —  you  should  have  told  me  plainly,"  said 
Lydia  drearily.  "  It  —  it  gives  me  a  strange  feeling 
to  have  depended  so  entirely  on  you,  and  then  to  find 
out  that  you  were  thinking  of  me  all  the  while  as 
Jerome  does." 

"Have  I  been?"  inquired  Stoddard.  "As  Jerome 
does  ?  What  a  passion  it  seems  to  be  with  folks  to 
classify  their  friends.  People  call  me  a  Socialist, 
because  I  am  trying  to  find  out  what  I  really  do  think 
on  certain  economic  and  social  subjects.  I  doubt 
that  I  shall  ever  bring  up  underneath  any  precise  label, 
and  yet  some  people  would  think  it  egotistical  that  I 
insisted  upon  being  a  class  to  myself.  I  very  much 
doubt  that  I  hold  Mr.  Hardwick's  opinion  exactly 
in  any  particular."  He  looked  at  the  girl  with  a  sort 
of  urgency  which  she  scarcely  comprehended.  "  Miss 
Sessions,"  he  said,  "I  wear  my  hair  longer  than  most 
men,  and  the  barber  is  always  deeply  grieved  at  my 
obstinacy.  I  never  eat  potatoes,  and  many  well- 
meaning  persons  are  greatly  concerned  over  it  - 
they  regard  the  exclusion  of  potatoes  from  one's 
dietary  as  almost  criminal.  But  you  —  I  expect  in 
you  more  tolerance  concerning  my  peculiarities. 
Why  must  you  care  at  all  what  I  think,  or  what  my 
views  are  in  this  matter?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  understand  you  at  all,"  Lydia  said 
distressfully. 


BITTER  WATERS  239 

"No?"  agreed  Stoddard  with  an  interrogative  note 
in  his  voice.  "  But  after  all  there's  no  need  for  people 
to  be  so  determined  to  understand  each  other,  is  there  ?" 

Lydia  looked  at  him  with  swimming  eyes. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  not  to  do  those  things?" 
she  managed  finally  to  say  with  some  composure. 

"Tell  you  not  to  do  things  that  you  had  thought 
out  for  yourself  and  decided  on?"  asked  Stoddard. 
"Oh,  no,  Miss  Sessions.  What  of  your  own  develop 
ment  ?  I  had  no  business  to  interfere  like  that.  You 
might  be  exactly  right  about  it,  and  I  wrong,  so  far  as 
you  yourself  were  concerned.  And  even  if  I  were 
right  and  you  wrong,  the  only  chance  of  growth 
for  you  was  to  exploit  the  matter  and  find  it  out  for 
yourself '; 

"  I  don't  understand  a  word  you  say,"  Lydia  Sessions 
repeated  dully.  "That's  the  kind  of  thing  you  used 
always  to  talk  when  you  and  I  were  planning  for  John 
Consadine.  Development  isn't  what  a  woman  wants. 
She  wants  —  she  needs  —  to  understand  how  to  please 
those  she  —  approves.  If  she  fails  anywhere,  and 
those  she  —  well,  if  somebody  that  she  has  —  con 
fidence  —  in  tells  her,  why  then  she'll  know  better 
next  time.  You  should  have  told  me." 

Her  eyes  overflowed  as  she  made  an  end,  but  Stod 
dard  adopted  a  tone  of  determined  lightness. 

"Dear    me,"    he    said    gently.     "What    reactionary 
views !     You  're  out  of  temper  with  me  this  evening  - 
I  get  on  your  nerves  with  my  theorizing.     Forgive  me, 
and  forget  all  about  it." 


240   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

Lydia  Sessions  smiled  kindly  on  her  guest,  without 
speaking.  But  one  thing  remained  to  her  out  of  it  all. 
Gray  Stoddard  thought  ill  of  her  work  —  it  carried 
her  further  from  him,  instead  of  nearer!  So  many 
months  of  effort  worse  than  wasted !  At  that  instant 
she  had  sight  of  Shade  Buckheath's  dark  face  in  the 
entry.  She  got  to  her  feet. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said  wanly,  "I  think  there 
is  some  one  out  there  that  I  ought  to  speak  to." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

A    VICTIM 

IN  THE  spinning  room  at  the  Victory  Mill,  with 
its  tall  frames  and  endlessly  turning  bobbins, 
where  the  languid  thread  ran  from  hank  to 
spool  and  the  tired  little  feet  must  walk  the  narrow 
aisles  between  the  jennies,  watching  if  perchance  a 
filament  had  broken,  a  knot  caught,  or  other  mischance 
occurred,  and  right  it,  Deanie  plodded  for  what  seemed 
to  her  many  years.  Milo  and  Pony  both  had  work 
now  in  another  department,  and  Lissy's  frames  were 
quite  across  the  noisy  big  room.  Whenever  the 
little  dark-haired  girl  could  get  away  from  her  own 
task  and  the  eye  of  the  room  boss,  she  ran  across  to 
the  small,  ailing  sister  and  hugged  her  hard,  begging 
her  not  to  feel  bad,  not  to  cry,  Sis'  Johnnie  was  bound 
to  come  before  long.  With  the  morbidness  of  a  sick 
child,  Deanie  came  to  dread  these  well-meant  assur 
ances,  finding  them  almost  as  distressing  as  her  own 
strange,  tormenting  sensations. 

The  room  was  insufferably  close,  because  it  had 
rained  and  the  windows  were  all  tightly  shut.  The 
flare  of  light  vitiated  the  air,  heated  it,  but  seemed 
to  the  child's  sick  sense  to  illuminate  nothing. 
Sometimes  she  found  herself  walking  into  the  machinery 

241 


242   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

and  put  out  a  reckless  little  hand  to  guard  her  steps. 
Sister  Johnnie  had  said  she  would  come  and  take  her 
away.  Sister  Johnnie  was  the  Providence  that  was 
never  known  to  fail.  Deanie  kept  on  doggedly,  and 
tied  threads,  almost  asleep.  The  room  opened  and 
shut  like  an  accordion  before  her  fevered  vision;  the 
floor  heaved  and  trembled  under  her  stumbling  feet. 
To  lie  down  —  to  lie  down  anywhere  and  sleep  - 
that  was  the  almost  intolerable  longing  that  possessed 
her.  Her  mouth  was  hot  and  dry.  The  little  white, 
peaked  face,  like  a  new  moon,  grew  strangely  luminous 
in  its  pallor.  Her  eyes  stung  in  their  sockets  - 
those  desolate  blue  eyes,  dark  with  unshed  tears,  heavy 
with  sleep. 

She  had  turned  her  row  and  started  back,  when  there 
came  before  her,  so  plain  that  she  almost  thought  she 
might  wet  her  feet  in  the*clear  water,  a  vision  of  the 
spring-branch  at  home  up  on  Unaka,  where  she  and 
Lissy  used  to  play.  There,  among  the  giant  roots  of 
the  old  oak  on  its  bank,  was  the  house  they  had  built 
of  big  stones  and  bright  bits  of  broken  dishes;  there 
lay  her  home-made  doll  flung  down  among  gay  fallen 
leaves;  a  little  toad  squatted  beside  it;  and  near  by  was 
the  tiny  gourd  that  was  their  play-house  dipper.  Oh, 
for  a  drink  from  that  spring! 

She  caught  sight  of  Mandy  Meacham  passing  the 
door,  and  ran  to  her,  heedless  of  consequences. 

"Mandy,"  she  pleaded,  taking  hold  of  the  woman's 
skirts  and  throwing  back  her  reeling  head  to  stare 
up  into  the  face  above  her,  "Mandy,  Sis'  Johnnie 


A  VICTIM  243 

said  she'd  come;  but  it's  a  awful  long  time,  and  I'm 
scared  I'll  fall  into  some  of  these  here  old  machines, 
I  feel  that  bad.  Won't  you  go  tell  Sis'  Johnnie  I'm 
waitin'  for  her?" 

Mandy  glanced  forward  through  the  weaving-room 
toward  her  own  silent  looms,  then  down  at  the  little, 
flushed  face  at  her  knee.  If  she  dared  to  do  things, 
as  Johnnie  dared,  she  would  pick  up  the  baby  and 
leave.  The  very  thought  of  it  terrified  her.  No,  she 
must  get  Johnnie  herself.  Johnnie  would  make  it 
right.  She  bent  down  and  kissed  the  little  thing, 
whispering: 

"Never  you  mind,  honey.  Mandy's  going  straight 
and  find  Sis'  Johnnie,  and  bring  her  here  to  Deanie. 
Jest  wait  a  minute." 

Then  she  turned  and,  swiftly,  lest  her  courage  evapor 
ate,  hurried  down  the  stair  and  to  the  time  keeper. 

"  Ef  you've  got  a  substitute,  you  can  put  'em  on  my 
looms,"  she  said  brusquely.  "I've  got  to  go  down  in 
town." 

"Sick?"  inquired  Reardon  laconically,  as  he  made 
some  entry  on  a  card  and  dropped  it  in  a  drawer  beside 
him. 

"No,  I  ain't  sick  —  but  Deanie  Consadine  is,  and 
I'm  goin'  over  in  town  to  find  her  sister.  That  child 
ain't  fitten  to  be  in  no  mill  —  let  alone  workin'  night 
turn.  You  men  ort  to  be  ashamed  —  that  baby  ort  to 
be  in  her  bed  this  very  minute." 

Her  voice  had  faltered  a  bit  at  the  conclusion. 
Yet  she  made  an  end  of  it,  and  hurried  away  with 


244   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

a  choke  in  her  throat.  The  man  stared  after  her 
angrily. 

"Well!"  he  ejaculated  finally.  "She's  got  her 
nerve  with  her.  Old  Himes  is  that  gal's  stepdaddy. 
I  reckon  he  knows  whether  she's  fit  to  work  in  the 
mills  or  not  —  he  hired  her  here.  Bob,  ain't  Himes 
down  in  the  basement  right  now  settin'  up  new 
machines  ?  You  go  down  there  and  name  this  business 
to  him.  See  what  he's  got  to  say." 

A  party  of  young  fellows  was  tramping  down  the 
village  street  singing.  One  of  them  carried  a  guitar 
and  struck,  now  and  again,  a  random  chord  upon  its 
strings.  The  street  was  dark,  but  as  the  singers,  step 
ping  rythmically,  passed  the  open  door  of  the  store, 
Mandy  recognized  a  shape  she  knew. 

"Shade  —  Shade  Buckheath!  Wait  thar!"  she 
called  to  him. 

The  others  lingered,  too,  a  moment,  till  they  saw 
it  was  a  girl  following;  then  they  turned  and  sauntered 
slowly  on,  still  singing: 

"  Ef  I  was  a  little  bird,  I'd  nest  in  the  tallest  tree, 
That  leans  over  the  waters  of  the  beautiful  Tennessee.' 

The  words  came  back  to  Buckheath  and  Mandy  in 
velvety  bass  and  boyish  tenor. 

"  Shade  —  whar's  Johnnie  ? "  panted  Mandy,  shaking 
him  by  the  arm.  "  I  been  up  to  the  house,  and  she  ain't 
thar.  Pap  ain't  thar,  neither.  I  was  skeered  to  name 
my  business  to  Laurelly;  Aunt  Mavity  ain't  no  help 
and,  and  —  Shade — whar's  Johnnie?"  Buckheath 


A  VICTIM  245 

looked  down  into  her  working,  tragic  face  and  his 
mouth  hardened. 

"She  ain't  at  home,"  he  said  finally.  "I've  been 
at  Himes's  all  evening.  Pap  and  me  has  a  —  er,  a 
little  business  on  hand  and  —  she  ain't  at  home.  They 
told  me  that  they  was  some  sort  of  shindig  at  Mr. 
Hardwick's  to-night.  I  reckon  Johnnie  Consadine 
is  chasin'  round  after  her  tony  friends.  Pap  said  she 
left  the  house  a-goin'  in  that  direction  —  or  Mavity 
told  me,  I  disremember  which.  I  reckon  you'll  find 
her  tha.  What  do  you  want  of  her?" 

"It's  Deanie."  She  glanced  fearfully  past  his 
shoulder  to  where  the  big  clock  on  the  grocery  wall 
showed  through  its  dim  window.  It  was  half-past 
ten.  The  lateness  of  the  hour  seemed  to  strike  her 
with  fresh  terror.  "Shade,  come  along  of  me,"  she 
pleaded.  "I'm  so  skeered.  I  never  shall  have  the 
heart  to  go  in  and  ax  for  Johnnie,  this  time  o'  night 
at  that  thar  fine  house.  How  she  can  talk  up  to  them 
swell  people  like  she  does  is  more  than  I  know.  You 
go  with  me  and  ax  is  she  thar." 

The  group  of  young  men  had  crossed  the  bridge  and 
were  well  on  their  way  to  the  Inn.  Buckheath  glanced 
after  them  doubtfully  and  turned  to  walk  at  Mandy's 
side.  When  they  came  to  the  gate,  the  woman  hung 
back,  whimpering  at  sight  of  the  festal  array,  and 
sound  of  the  voices  within. 

"They've  got  a  party,"  she  deprecated.  "My 
old  dress  is  jest  as  dirty  as  the  floor.  You  go  ax  'em, 
Shade." 


246   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

As  she  spoke,  Johnnie,  carrying  a  tray  of  cups  and 
saucers,  passed  a  lighted  window,  and  Buckheath 
uttered  a  sudden,  unpremeditated  oath. 

"I  don't  know  what  God  Almighty  means  makin' 
women  such  fools,"  he  growled.  "What  call  had 
Johnnie  Consadine  got  to  come  here  and  act  the  ser 
vant  for  them  rich  folks  ?  —  runnin'  around  after  Gray 
Stoddard  —  and  much  good  may  it  do  her!" 

Mandy  crowded  herself  back  into  the  shadow  of 
the  dripping  evergreens,  and  Shade  went  boldly  up 
on  the  side  porch.  She  saw  the  door  opened  and 
her  escort  admitted;  then  through  the  glass  was  aware 
of  Lydia  Sessions  in  an  evening  frock  coming  into  the 
small  entry  and  conferring  at  length  with  him. 

Her  attention  was  diverted  from  them  by  the 
appearance  of  Johnnie  herself  just  inside  a  win 
dow.  She  ran  forward  and  tapped  on  the  pane. 
Johnnie  put  down  her  tray  and  came  swiftly  out, 
passing  Shade  and  Miss  Sessions  in  the  side  entry 
with  a  word. 

"What  is  it?"  she  inquired  of  Mandy,  with  a 
premonition  of  disaster  in  hsr  tones. 

"Hit's  Deanie,"  choked  the  Meacham  woman. 
"She's  right  sick,  and  they  won't  let  her  leave  the 
mill  —  leastways  she's  skeered  to  ask,  and  so  am  I. 
I  'lowed  I  ought  to  come  and  tell  you,  Johnnie. 
Was  that  right?  You  wanted  me  to,  didn't  you?" 
anxiously. 

"Yes — yes — yes!"  cried  Johnnie,  reaching  up  swift, 
nervous  fingers  to  unfasten  the  cap  from  her  hair, 


A  VICTIM  247 

thrusting  it  in  the  pocket  of  the  apron,  and  untying  the 
apron  strings.  "Wait  a  minute.  I  must  give  these 
things  back.  Oh,  let's  hurry!" 

It  was  but  a  moment  after  that  she  emerged  once 
more  on  the  porch,  and  apparently  for  the  first  time 
noticed  Buckheath. 

"To-morrow,  then,"  Miss  Sessions  was  saying  to 
him  as  he  moved  toward  the  two  girls.  "To-morrow 
morning."  And  with  a  patronizing  nod  to  them  all,  she 
withdrew  and  rejoined  her  guests. 

"I  never  found  you  when  I  went  up  to  the  house," 
explained  Mandy  nervously,  "and  so  I  stopped  Shade 
on  the  street  and  axed  him  would  he  come  along  with 
me.  Maybe  it  would  do  some  good  if  he  was  to  go 
up  with  us  to  the  mill.  They  pay  more  attention  to 
a  man  person.  I  tell  you,  Johnnie,  the  baby's  plumb 
broke  down  and  sick." 

The  three  were  moving  swiftly  along  the  darkened 


street  now. 

tt  T' 


I'm  going  to  t-ake  the  children  away  from  Pap," 
Johnnie  said  in  a  curious  voice,  rapid  and  monotonous, 
as  though  she  were  reciting  something  to  herself.  "  I 
have  obliged  to  do  it.  There  must  be  a  law  somewhere. 
God  won't  let  me  fail." 

"Huh-uh,"  grunted  Buckheath,  instantly.  "You 
can't  do  such  a  thing.  Ef  you  was  married,  and  yo' 
mother  would  let  you  adopt  'em,  I  reckon  the  courts 
might  agree  to  that." 

"Shade,"  Johnnie  turned  upon  him,  "you've  got 
more  influence  with  Pap  Himes  than  anybody.  I 


248   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

believe  if  you'd  talk  to  him,  he'd  let  me  have  the  child 
ren.  I  could  support  them  now." 

"  I  don't  want  to  fall  out  with  Pap  Himes  —  for 
nothin',"  responded  Shade.  "If  you'll  say  that  you'll 
wed  me  to-morrow  morning,  I'll  go  to  Pap  and  get  him 
to  give  up  the  children."  Neither  of  them  paid  any 
attention  to  Mandy,  who  listened  open-eyed  and 
open-eared  to  this  singular  courtship.  "Or  I'll  get 
him  to  take  'em  out  of  the  mill.  You're  right,  I  ain't 
got  a  bit  of  doubt  I  could  do  it.  And  if  I  don't  do  it, 
you  needn't  have  me." 

An  illumination  fell  upon  Johnnie's  mind.  She 
saw  that  Buckheath  was  in  league  with  her  stepfather, 
and  that  the  pressure  was  put  on  according  to  the 
younger  man's  ideas,  and  would  be  instantly  withdrawn 
at  his  bidding.  Yet,  when  the  swift  revulsion  such 
knowledge  brought  with  it  made  her  ready  to  dismiss 
him  at  once,  thought  of  Deanie's  wasted  little  counten 
ance,  with  the  red  burning  high  on  the  sharp,  unchildish 
cheekbone,  stayed  her.  For  a  while  she  walked  with 
bent  head.  Heavily  before  her  mind's  eye  went  the 
picture  of  Gray  Stoddard  among  his  own  people,  in 
his  own  world  —  where  she  could  never  come. 

"Have  it  your  way,"  she  said  finally  in  a  suffering 
voice. 

"  What's  that  you  say  ?  Are  you  goin'  to  take  me  ?" 
demanded  Buckheath,  pressing  close  and  reaching 
out  a  possessive  arm  to  put  around  her. 

"I  said  yes,"  Johnnie  shivered,  pushing  his  hand 
away;  "but  —  but  it'll  only  be  when  you  can  come  to 


A  VICTIM  249 

me  and  tell  me  that  the  children  are  all  right.     If  you 
fail  me  there,  I  - 

Back  at  the  Victory,  downstairs  went  Reardon's 
messenger  to  where  Pap  Himes  was  sweating  over 
the  new  machinery.  Work  always  put  the  old  man  in 
a  sort  of  incandescent  fury,  and  now  as  Bob  spoke  to 
him,  he  raised  an  inflamed  face,  from  which  the  small 
eyes  twinkled  redly,  with  a  grunt  of  inquiry. 

"That  youngest  gal  o'  yours,"  the  man  repeated. 
"  She's  tryin'  to  leave  her  job  and  go  home.  Reardon 
said  tell  you,  an'  see  what  you  had  to  say.  The  Lord 
knows  we  have  trouble  enough  with  those  young  'uns. 
I'm  glad  when  any  of  their  folks  that's  got  sand  is 
around  to  make  'em  behave.  I  reckon  she  can't  come 
it  over  you,  Gid." 

Himes  straightened  up  with  a  groan,  under  any 
exertion  his  rheumatic  old  back  always  punished  him 
cruelly  for  the  days  of  indolence  that  had  let  its  supple 
ness  depart. 

"Huh  ?"  he  grunted.  "  Whar's  she  at  ?  Up  in  the 
spinnin'  room  ?  Well,  is  they  enough  of  you  up  thar 
to  keep  her  tendin'  to  business  for  a  spell,  till  I  can 
get  this  thing  levelled?"  He  held  to  the  mechanism 
he  was  adjusting  and  harangued  wheezily  from  behind 
it.  "I  cain't  drop  my  job  an'  canter  upstairs  every 
time  one  o'  you  fellers  whistles.  The  chap  ain't  more'n 
two  foot  long.  Looks  like  you-all  might  hold  on  to 
her  for  one  while  —  I'll  be  thar  soon  as  I  can  -  -  'bout 
a  hour";  and  he  returned  savagely  to  his  work. 


250   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

When  Mandy  left  her,  Deanie  tried  for  a  time  to 
tend  her  frames;  but  the  endlessly  turning  spools, 
the  edges  of  the  jennies,  blurred  before  her  fevered  eyes. 
Everything  —  even  her  fear  of  Pap  Himes,  her  dread 
of  the  room  boss  —  finally  became  vague  in  her  mind. 
More  and  more  she  dreaded  little  Lissy's  well-meant 
visitations;  and  after  nearly  an  hour  she  stole  toward 
the  door,  looking  half  deliriously  for  Sister  Johnnie. 
Nobody  noticed  in  the  noisy,  flaring  room  that  spool 
after  spool  on  her  frame  fouled  its  thread  and  ceased 
turning,  as  the  little  figure  left  its  post  and  hesitated 
like  a  scared,  small  animal  toward  the  main  exit.  Pap 
Himes,  having  come  to  where  he  could  leave  his  work 
in  the  basement,  climbed  painfully  the  many  stairs 
to  the  spinning  room,  and  met  her  close  to  where  the 
big  belt  rose  up  to  the  great  shaft  that  gave  power 
to  every  machine  in  that  department. 

The  loving  master  of  the  big  yellow  cat  had  always 
cherished  a  somewhat  clumsily  concealed  dislike  and 
hostility  to  Deanie.  Perhaps  there  lingered  in  this 
a  touch  of  half-jealousy  of  his  wife's  baby;  perhaps 
he  knew  instinctively  that  Johnnie's  rebellion  against 
his  tyranny  was  always  strongest  where  Deanie  was 
concerned. 

"Why  ain't  you  on  your  job  ?"  he  inquired  threaten 
ingly,  as  the  child  saw  him  and  made  some  futile 
attempt  to  shrink  back  out  of  his  way. 

"I  feel  so  quare,  Pap  Himes,"  the  little  girl  answered 
him,  beginning  to  cry.  "  I  thes'  want  to  lay  down  and 
go  to  sleep  every  minute." 


A  VICTIM  251 

"Huh!"  Pap  exploded  his  favourite  expletive  till 
it  sounded  ferocious.  "That  ain't  quare  feelin's. 
That's  just  plain  old-fashioned  laziness.  You  git 
yo'self  back  thar  and  tend  them  frames,  or  I'll  - 

"I  cain't!  I  cain't  see 'em  to  tend!  I'm  right  blind 
in  the  eyes!"  wailed  Deanie.  "I  wish  Sis'  Johnnie 
would  come.  I  wish't  she  would!" 

"Uh-huh,"  commented  Bob  Conley,  who  had 
strolled  up  in  the  old  man's  wake.  "  Reckon  Sis' 
Johnnie  would  run  things  to  suit  her  an'  you.  Himes, 
you  can  cuss  me  out  good  an'  plenty,  but  I  take  notice 
you  seem  to  have  trouble  makin'  your  own  family 
mind." 

"You    shut   your    head,"    growled    Pap. 

Reardon  had  added  himself  to  the  spectators. 

"See  here,"  the  foreman  argued,  "if  you  say  there's 
nothing  the  matter  with  that  gal,  an'  she  carries  on  till 
we  have  to  let  her  go  home,  she  goes  for  good.  I'll 
take  her  frames  away  from  her." 

Pap  felt  that  a  formidable  show  of  authority  must 
be  made. 

"Git  back  thar!"  he  roared,  advancing  upon  the 
child,  raising  the  hand  that  still  held  the  wrench  with 
which  he  had  been  working  on  the  machinery  down 
stairs.  "  Git  back  thar,  or  I'll  make  you  wish  you  had. 
When  I  tell  you  to  do  a  thing,  don't  you  name  Johnnie 
to  me.  Git  back  thar!" 

With  a  faint  cry  the  child  cowered  away  from  him. 
It  is  unlikely  he  would  have  struck  her  with  the 
upraised  tool  he  held.  Perhaps  he  did  not  intend  a 


252   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

blow  at  all,  but  one  or  two  small  frame  tenders  paused 
at  the  ends  of  their  lanes  to  watch  the  scene  with  avid 
eyes,  to  extract  the  last  thrill  from  the  sensation  that 
was  being  kindly  brought  into  the  midst  of  their  monoto 
nous  toilsome  hours;  and  Lissy,  who  was  creeping  up 
anxiously,  yet  keeping  out  of  the  range  of  Himes's 
eye,  crouched  as  though  the  hammer  had  been  raised 
over  her  own  head. 

"  Johnnie  said  -  "  began  the  little  girl,  desperately; 
but  the  old  man,  stung  to  greater  fury,  sprang  at  her;  she 
stumbled  back  and  back;  fell  against  the  slowly  moving 
belt;  her  frock  caught  in  the  rivets  which  were  just 
passing,  and  she  was  instantly  jerked  from  her  feet. 
If  any  one  of  the  three  men  looking  on  had  taken 
prompt  action,  the  child  might  have  been  rescued  at 
once;  but  stupid  terror  held  them  motionless. 

At  the  moment  Johnnie,  Shade  and  Mandy,  coming 
up  the  stairs,  got  sight  of  the  group,  Pap  with  upraised 
hammer,  the  child  in  the  clutches  of  imminent  death. 

With  shrill  outcries  the  other  juvenile  workers  swiftly 
gathered  in  a  crowd.  One  broke  away  and  fled  down 
the  long  room  screaming. 

"You  Pony  Consadine!  Milo!  Come  here.  Pap 
Himes  is  a-killing  yo'  sister." 

The  old  man,  shaking  all  through  his  bulk,  stared 
with  fallen  jaw.  Mandy  shrieked  and  leaped  up  the 
few  remaining  steps  to  reach  Deanie,  who  was  already 
above  the  finger-tips  of  a  tall  man. 

"Pap!  Shade!  Quick!  Don't  you  see  she'll  be 
killed!"  Mandy  screamed  in  frenzy. 


A  VICTIM  253 

Something  in  the  atmosphere  must  have  made  itself 
felt,  for  no  sound  could  have  penetrated  the  din  of  the 
weaving  room;  yet  some  of  the  women  left  their  looms 
and  came  running  in  behind  the  two  pale,  scared  little 
brothers,  to  add  their  shrieks  to  the  general  clamour. 
Deanie's  fellow  workers,  poor  little  souls,  denied  their 
childish  share  of  the  world's  excitements,  gazed  with 
a  sort  of  awful  relish.  Only  Johnnie,  speeding  down 
the  room  away  from  it  all,  was  doing  anything  rational 
to  avert  the  catastrophe.  The  child  hung  on  the  slowly 
moving  belt,  inert,  a  tiny  rag  of  life,  with  her  mop  of 
tangled  yellow  curls,  her  white,  little  face,  its  blue  eyes 
closed.  When  she  reached  the  top,  where  the  pulley 
was  close  against  the  ceiling,  her  brains  would  be 
dashed  out  and  the  small  body  dragged  to  pieces  be 
tween  beam  and  ceiling. 

Those  who  looked  at  her  realized  this.  Numbed 
by  the  inevitable,  they  made  no  effort,  save  Milo,  who 
at  imminent  risk  of  his  own  life,  was  climbing  on  a 
frame  near  at  hand;  but  Pony  flew  at  Himes,  beating 
the  old  man  with  hard-clenched,  inadequate  fists,  and 
screaming. 

"You  git  her  down  from  thar  —  git  her  down  this 
minute!  She'll  be  killed,  I  tell  ye!  She'll  be  killed, 
I  tell  ye!" 

Poor  Mandy  made  inarticulate  moanings  and  reached 
up  her  arms;  Shade  Buckheath  cursed  softly  under 
his  breath;  the  women  and  children  stared,  eager 
to  lose  no  detail. 

"I  always  have  said,  and   I   always  shall  say,  that 


254   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

chaps  as  young  as  that  ain't  got  no  business  around 
whar  machinery's  at!"  Bob  Conley  kept  shouting  over 
and  over  in  a  high,  strange,  mechanical  voice,  plainly 
quite  unconscious  that  he  spoke  at  all. 

The  child  was  so  near  the  ceiling  now  that  a  universal 
groan  proceeded  from  the  watchers.  Then,  all  at  once 
the  belt  ceased  to  move,  and  the  clash  and  tumult 
were  stilled.  Johnnie,  who  had  flown  to  the  little 
controlling  wheel  to  throw  off  the  power,  came  running 
back,  crying  out  in  the  sudden  quiet. 

"Shade  —  quick  —  get  a  ladder!  Hold  something 
under  there !  She  might  —  Oh,  my  God ! "  for  Deanie's 
frock  had  pulled  free  and  the  little  form  hurled  down 
before  Johnnie  could  reach  them.  But  the  devoted 
Mandy  was  there,  her  futile,  inadequate  skirts  upheld. 
Into  them  the  small  body  dropped,  and  together 
the  two  came  to  the  floor  with  a  dull  sort  of  crunch. 

When  Johnnie  reached  the  prostrate  pair,  Mandy 
was  struggling  to  her  knees,  gasping;  but  Deanie  lay 
twisted  just  as  she  had  fallen,  the  little  face  sunken  and 
deathly,  a  tiny  trickle  of  blood  coming  from  a  corner  of 
her  parted  lips. 

"Oh,  my  baby!  Oh,  my  baby!  They've  killed 
my  baby!  Deanie  —  Deanie  —  Deanie  -  — !"  wailed 
Mandy. 

Johnnie  was  on  her  knees  beside  the  child,  feeling 
her  over  with  tremulous  hands.  Her  face  was  bleached 
chalk-white,  and  her  eyes  stared  fearfully  at  the  motion 
less  lips  of  the  little  one,  from  which  that  scarlet  stream 
trickled;  but  she  set  her  own  lips  silently. 


A  VICTIM  255 

"Thar  —  right  thar  in  the  side,"  groaned  Mandy. 
"  She's  all  staved  in  on  the  side  thar  —  my  pore  little 
Deanie!  Oh,  I  tried  to  ketch  her,  but  she  broke  right 
through  and  pulled  my  skirts  out  of  my  hand  and  hit 
the  floor." 

Pap  had  drawn  nearer  on  shaking  limbs;  the  children 
crowded  so  close  that  Johnnie  looked  up  and  motioned 
them  back. 

"  Shade  —  you  run  for  a  doctor,  and  have  a  carriage 
fetched,"  she  ordered  briefly. 

"  Is  —  Lord  God,  is  she  dead  ?"  faltered  the  old  man. 

"Ef  she  ain't  dead  now,  she'll  die,"  Mandy  answered 
him  shrilly.  "They  ain't  no  flesh  on  her  —  she's 
run  down  to  a  pore  little  skeleton.  That's  what  the 
factories  does  to  women  and  children  —  they  jest  eats 
'em  up,  and  spits  out  they'  bones." 

"Well,  I  never  aimed  to  skeer  her  that-a-way," 
said  Himes;  "but  the  little  fool - 

Johnnie's  flaming  glance  silenced  him,  and  his  voice 
died  away,  a  sort  of  a  rasp  in  his  throat.  Mechani 
cally  he  glanced  up  to  the  point  on  the  great  belt  from 
which  the  child  had  fallen,  and  measured  the  distance 
to  the  floor.  He  scratched  his  bald  head  dubiously, 
and  edged  back  from  the  tragedy  he  had  made. 

"Everybody  knows  I  never  hit  her,"  he  muttered 
as  he  went. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

LIGHT 

GRAY  STODDARD'S  eyes  had  followed  Lydia 
Sessions  when  she  went  into  the  hall  to  speak 
to  Shade  Buckheath.  He  had  a  glimpse  of 
Johnnie,  too,  in  the  passage;  he  noted  that  she  later 
left  the  house  with  Buckheath  (Mandy  Meacham  was 
beyond  his  range  of  vision);  and  the  pang  that  went 
through  him  at  the  sight  was  a  strangely  mingled  one. 
The  talk  between  him  and  his  hostess  had  been 
enlightening  to  both  of  them.  It  showed  Lydia 
Sessions  not  only  where  she  stood  with  Gray,  but  it 
brought  home  to  her  startlingly,  and  as  nothing  had 
yet  done,  the  strength  of  Johnnie's  hold  upon  him; 
while  it  forced  Gray  himself  to  realize  that  ever  since 
that  morning  when  he  met  the  girl  on  the  bridge  going 
to  put  her  little  brothers  and  sisters  in  the  Victory  mill, 
he  had  behaved  more  like  a  sulky,  disappointed  lover 
than  a  staunch  friend.  He  confessed  frankly  to  himself, 
that,  had  Johnnie  been  a  boy,  a  young  man,  instead 
of  a  beautiful  and  appealing  woman,  he  wrould  have 
been  prompt  to  go  to  her  and  remonstrate  —  he  would 
have  made  no  bones  of  having  the  matter  out  clearly 
and  fully.  He  blamed  himself  much  for  the  estrange 
ment  which  he  had  allowed  to  grow  between  them.  He 

256 


LIGHT  257 

knew  instinctively  about  what  Shade  Buckheath  was  - 
certainly  no  fit  mate  for  Johnnie  Consadine.  And 
for  the  better  to  desert  her  —  poor,  helpless,  unschooled 
girl  —  could  only  operate  to  push  her  toward  the 
worse.  These  thoughts  kept  Stoddard  wakeful  com 
pany  till  almost  morning. 

Dawn  came  with  a  soft  wind  out  of  the  west,  all  the 
odours  of  spring  on  its  breath,  and  a  penitent  warmth 
to  apologize  for  last  night's  storm.  Stoddard  faced 
his  day,  and  decided  that  he  would  begin  it  with  an 
early-morning  horseback  ride.  He  called  up  his  stable 
boy  over  the  telephone,  and  when  Jim  brought  round 
Roan  Sultan  saddled  there  was  a  pause,  as  of  custom, 
for  conversation. 

"Heared  about  the  accident  over  to  the  Victory, 
Mr.  Stoddard?"  Jim  inquired. 

"No,"  said  Gray,  wheeling  sharply.  "Anybody 
hurt?" 

"One  o'  Pap  Himes's  stepchildren  mighty  near 
killed,  they  say,"  the  boy  told  him.  "I  seen  Miss 
Johnnie  Consadine  when  they  was  bringing  the  little 
gal  down.  It  seems  they  sent  for  her  over  to  Mr. 
Hardwickses  where  she  was  at." 

Gray  mounted  quickly,  settled  himself  in  the  saddle, 
and  glanced  down  the  street  which  would  lead  him 
past  Himes's  place.  For  months  now,  he  had  been 
instinctively  avoiding  that  part  of  town.  Poor  Johnnie! 
She  might  be  a  disappointing  character,  but  he  knew 
well  that  she  was  full  of  love;  he  remembered  her  eyes 
when,  nearly  a  year  ago,  up  in  the  mist  and  sweetness 


258   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

of  April  on  the  Unakas,  she  had  told  him  of  the  baby 
sister  and  the  other  little  ones.  She  must  be  suffering 
now.  Almost  without  reflection  he  turned  his  horse's 
head  and  rode  toward  the  forlorn  Himes  boarding- 
house. 

As  he  drew  near,  he  noticed  a  huddled  figure  at  the 
head  of  the  steps,  and  coming  up  made  it  out  to  be 
Himes  himself,  sitting,  elbows  on  knees,  staring  straight 
ahead  of  him.  Pap  had  not  undressed  at  all,  but  he 
had  taken  out  his  false  teeth  "to  rest  his  jaws  a  spell," 
as  he  was  in  the  habit  of  doing,  and  the  result  was 
startling.  His  cheeks  were  fallen  in  to  such  an  extent 
that  the  blinking  red  eyes  above  looked  larger;  it 
was  as  though  the  old  rascal's  crimes  of  callous  self 
ishness  and  greed  had  suddenly  aged  him. 

Stoddard  pulled  in  his  horse  at  the  foot  of  the  steps. 

"I  hear  one  of  the  little  girls  was  hurt  in  the  mill 
last  night.  Was  she  badly  injured  ?  Which  one  was 
it?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

"Hit's  Deanie.  She's  all  right,"  mumbled  Pap. 
"Got  the  whole  house  uptore,  and  Laurelly  miscallin' 
me  till  I  don't  know  which  way  to  look;  and  now  the 
little  dickens  is  a-goin'  to  git  well  all  right.  Chaps 
is  tough,  I  tell  ye.  Ye  cain't  kill  'em." 

"You  people  must  have  thought  so,"  said  Stoddard, 
"or  you  wouldn't  have  brought  these  little  ones  down 
and  hired  them  to  the  cotton  mill.  Johnnie  knew  what 
that  meant." 

The  words  had  come  almost  involuntarily.  The 
old  man  stared  at  the  speaker,  breathing  hard. 


LIGHT  259 

"What's  Johnnie  Consadine  got  to  do  with  it?" 
he  inquired  finally.  "  I'm  the  stepdaddy  of  the  children 

—  and  Johnnie's  stepdaddy  too,  for  the  matter  of  that 

—  and  what  I  say  goes." 

"Did  you  hire  the  children  at  the  Victory  ?"  inquired 
Stoddard,  swiftly.  Back  across  his  memory  came  the 
picture  of  Johnnie  with  her  poor  little  sheep  for  the 
shambles  clustered  about  her  on  the  bridge  before  the 
Victory  mill.  "Did  you  hire  the  children  to  the  fac 
tory?"  he  repeated. 

"Now  Mr.  Stoddard,"  began  the  old  man,  between 
bluster  and  whine,  "I  talked  about  them  chaps  to  the 
superintendent  of  yo'  mill,  an'  you-all  said  you  didn't 
want  none  of  that  size.  And  one  o'  yo'  men  —  he  was 
a  room  boss,  I  reckon  —  spoke  up  right  sassy  to  me  - 
as  sassy  as  Johnnie  Consadine  herself,  and  God  knows 
she  ain't  got  no  respect  for  them  that's  set  over  her. 
I  had  obliged  to  let  'em  go  to  the  Victory;  but  I  don't 
think  you  have  any  call  to  hold  it  ag'in  me  --  Johnnie 
was  plumb  impident  about  it  —  plumb  impident." 

Stoddard  glanced  up  at  the  windows  and  made 
as  though  to  dismount.  All  night  at  his  pillow  had 
stood  the  accusation  that  he  had  been  cruel  to  Johnnie. 
Now,  as  Himes's  revelations  went  on,  and  he  saw  what 
her  futile  efforts  had  been,  as  he  guessed  a  part  of  her 
sufferings,  it  seemed  he  must  hurry  to  her  and  brush 
away  the  tangle  of  misunderstanding  which  he  had 
allowed  to  grow  up  between  them. 

'They've  worked  over  that  thar  chap,  off  an*  on, 
all  night,"  the  old  man  said.  "Looks  like,  if  they 


26o   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

keep  hit  up,  she'll  begin  to  think  somethin's  the  matter 
of  her." 

Gray  realized  that  his  visit  at  this  moment  would 
be  ill-timed.  He  would  ride  on  through  the  Gap  now, 
and  call  as  he  came  back. 

"I  had  obliged  to  find  me  a  place  whar  I  could  hire 
out  them  chaps,"  the  miserable  old  man  before  him 
went  on,  garrulously.  "They's  nothin'  like  mill 
work  to  take  the  davilment  out  o'  young  'uns.  Some 
of  them  chaps'll  call  you  names  and  make  faces  at  you, 
even  whilst  you'  goin'  through  the  mill  yard  —  and 
think  what  they'd  be  ef  they  wasn't  worked!  I'm 
a  old  man,  and  when  I  married  Laurelly  and  took 
the  keepin'  o'  her  passel  o'  chaps  on  my  back,  I  aimed 
to  make  it  pay.  Laurelly,  she  won't  work." 

He  looked  helplessly  at  Stoddard,  like  a  child  about 
to  cry. 

"  She  told  me  up  and  down  that  she  never  had  worked 
in  no  mill,  and  she  was  too  old  to  1'arn.  She  said  the 
noise  of  the  thing  from  the  outside  was  enough  to  show 
her  that  she  didn't  want  to  go  inside  —  and  go  she 
would  not." 

"  But  she  let  her  children  go  —  she  and  Johnnie," 
muttered  Stoddard,  settling  himself  in  his  saddle. 

"Well,  I'd  like  to  see  either  of  'em  he'p  theirselves!" 
returned  Pap  Himes  with  a  reminscence  of  his  former 
manner.  ''Johnnie  ain't  had  the  decency  to  give  me 
her  wages,  not  once  since  I've  been  her  pappy;  the 
onliest  money  I  ever  had  from  her  -  -  'ceptin'  to  pay 
her  board  —  was  when  she  tried  to  buy  them  chaps 


LIGHT  261 

out  o'  workin'  in  the  mill.  But  when  I  put  my  foot 
down  an'  told  her  that  the  chillen  could  work  in  the 
mill  without  a  beatin'  or  with  one,  jest  as  she  might 
see  and  choose,  she  had  a  little  sense,  and  took  'em 
over  and  hired  'em  herself.  Baylor  told  me  afterward 
that  she  tried  to  make  him  say  he  didn't  want  'em, 
but  Baylor  and  me  stands  together,  an'  Miss  Johnnie 
failed  up  on  that  trick." 

Pap  felt  an  altogether  misplaced  confidence  in  the 
view  that  Stoddard,  as  a  male,  was  likely  to  take  of 
the  matter. 

"A  man  is  obliged  to  be  boss  of  his  own  family  — 
ain't  that  so,  Mr.  Stoddard?"  he  demanded.  "I 
said  the  chillen  had  to  go  into  the  mill,  and  into  the  mill 
they  went.  They  all  wanted  to  go,  at  the  start,  and 
Laurelly  agreed  with  me  that  hit  was  the  right  thing. 
Then,  just  because  Deanie  happened  to  a  accident 
and  Johnnie  took  up  for  her,  Laurelly  has  to  go  off 
into  hy-strikes  and  say  she'll  quit  me  soon  as  she  can 
put  foot  to  the  ground." 

Stoddard  made  no  response  to  this,  but  touched 
Sultan  with  his  heel  and  moved  on.  He  had  stopped 
at  the  post-office  as  he  came  past,  taking  from  his  per 
sonal  box  one  letter.  This  he  opened  and  read  as  he 
rode  slowly  away.  Halfway  up  the  first  rise,  Pap  saw 
him  rein  in  and  turn;  the  old  man  was  still  staring 
when  Gray  stopped  once  more  at  the  gate. 

"See  here,  Himes,"  he  spoke  abruptly,  "this  concerns 
you  —  this  letter  that  has  just  reached  me." 

Pap  looked  at  the  younger  man  with  mere  curiosity. 


262   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

"When  Johnnie  was  first  given  a  spinning  room 
to  look  after,"  said  Gray,  "she  came  to  Mr.  Sessions 
and  myself  and  asked  permission  to  have  a  small  device 
of  her  own  contrivance  used  on  the  frames  as  an 
Indicator." 

Pap  shuffled  his  feet  uneasily. 

"I  thought  no  more  about  the  matter;  in  fact  I've 
not  been  in  the  spinning  department  for  —  for  some 
time."  Stoddard  looked  down  at  the  hand  which  held 
his  bridle,  and  remembered  that  he  had  absented  him 
self  from  every  place  that  threatened  him  with  the  sight 
of  Johnnie. 

Pap  was  breathing  audibly  through  his  open  mouth. 

"She  —  she  never  had  nothin'  made,"  he  whispered 
out  the  ready  lie  hurriedly,  scrambling  to  his  feet  and 
down  the  steps,  pressing  close  to  Roan  Sultan's  shoulder, 
laying  a  wheedling  hand  on  the  bridle,  looking  up 
anxiously  into  the  stern  young  face  above  him. 

"Oh,  yes,  she  did,'*  Stoddard  returned.  "I 
remember,  now,  hearing  some  of  the  children  from  the 
room  say  that  she  had  a  device  which  worked  well. 
From  the  description  they  gave  of  it,  I  judge  that  it 
is  the  same  which  this  letter  tells  me  you  and  Buckheath 
are  offering  to  the  Alabama  mills.  Mr.  Trumbull, 
the  superintendent,  says  that  you  and  Buckheath  hold 
the  patent  for  this  Indicator  jointly.  As  soon  as  I 
can  consult  with  Johnnie,  we  will  see  about  the  matter." 

Himes  let  go  the  roan's  bridle  and  staggered  back 
a  pace  or  two,  open-mouthed,  staring.  The  skies  had 
fallen.  His  heavy  mind  turned  slowly  toward  resent- 


LIGHT  263 

ment  against  Buckheath.  He  wished  the  younger 
conspirator  were  here  to  take  his  share.  Then  the  door 
opened  and  Shade  himself  came  out  wiping  his  mouth. 
He  was  fresh  from  the  breakfast  table,  but  not  on 
his  way  to  the  mill,  since  it  was  still  too  early.  He 
gave  Stoddard  a  surly  nod  as  he  passed  through  the 
gate  and  on  down  the  street,  in  the  direction  of  the 
Inn.  Himes,  in  a  turmoil  of  stupid  uncertainty, 
once  or  twice  made  as  though  to  detain  him.  His 
slow  wits  refused  him  any  available  counsel.  Dazedly 
he  fumbled  for  something  convincing  to  say.  Then 
on  a  sudden  inspiration,  he  once  more  laid  hold  of  the 
bridle  and  began  to  speak  volubly  in  a  hoarse  under 
tone: 

"W'y,  name  o'  God,  Mr.  Stoddard!  Who  should 
have  a  better  right  to  that  thar  patent  than  Buck  and 
me  ?  I'm  the  gal's  stepdaddy,  an'  he's  the  man  she's 
goin'  to  wed." 

Some  peculiar  quality  in  the  silence  of  Gray  Stoddard 
seemed  finally  to  penetrate  the  old  fellow's  under 
standing.  He  looked  up  to  find  the  man  on  horseback 
regarding  him,  square-jawed,  pale,  and  with  eyes  angrily 
bright.  He  glanced  over  his  shoulder  at  the  windows 
of  the  house  behind  him,  moistened  his  lips  once  again, 
gulped,  and  finally  resumed  in  a  manner  both  whining 
and  aggressive. 

''Now,  Mr.  Stoddard,  I  want  to  talk  to  you  mighty 
plain.  The  whole  o'  Cottonville  is  full  o'  tales  about 
you  and  Johnnie.  Yes  —  that's  the  truth." 

He   stood   staring   down   at   his   big,  shuffling  feet, 


264   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

laboriously  sorting  in  his  own  mind  such  phrases  as 
it  might  do  to  use.  The  difficulty  of  what  he  had 
to  say  blocked  speech  for  so  long  that  Stoddard,  in 
a  curiously  quiet  voice,  finally  prompted  him. 

"  Tales  ? "  he  repeated.     "  What  tales,  Mr.  Himes  ? " 

"Why,  they  ain't  a  old  woman  in  town,  nor  a  young 

one  neither  —  I  believe  in  my  soul  that  the  young  ones 

is  the  worst  —  that   ain't  been  talkin'  —  talkin'    bad 

—  ever  since  you  took  Johnnie  to  ride  in  your  otty- 

mobile." 

Again  there  came  a  long  pause.  Stoddard  stared 
down  on  Gideon  Himes,  and  Himes  stared  at  his  own 
feet. 

"Well?"  Stoddard's  quiet  voice  once  more  urged 
his  accuser  forward. 

Pap  rolled  his  head  between  his  shoulders  with  a 
negative  motion  which  intimated  that  it  was  not  well. 

"And  lending  her  books,  and  all  sich,"  he  pursued 
doggedly.  "That  kind  o'  carryin'  on  ain't  decent, 
and  you  know  it  ain't.  Buck  knows  it  ain't  —  but 
he's  willin'  to  have  her.  He  told  her  he  was  willin' 
to  have  her,  and  the  fool  gal  let  on  like  she  didn't  want 
him.  He  came  here  to  board  at  my  house  because 
she  wouldn't  scarcely  so  much  as  speak  to  him  else 
where." 

By  the  light  of  these  statements  Stoddard  read  what 
poor  Johnnie's  persecution  had  been.  The  details 
of  it  he  could  not,  of  course,  know;  yet  he  saw  in  that 
moment  largely  how  she  had  been  harried.  At  the 
instant  of  seeing,  came  that  swift  and  mighty  revulsion 


LIGHT  265 

that  follows  surely  when  we  have  misprized  and  mis 
understood  those  dear  to  us. 

"What  is  it  you  want  of  me  ?"  he  inquired  of  Himes. 

"Why,  just  this  here,"  Pap  told  him.  "You  let 
Johnnie  Consadine  alone."  He  leaned  even  closer 
and  spoke  in  a  yet  lower  tone,  because  a  number  of 
girls  were  emerging  from  the  house  and  starting  down 
the  steps.  "A  big,  rich  feller  like  you  don't  mean  any 
good  by  a  girl  fixed  the  way  Johnnie  is.  You  wouldn't 
marry  her  —  then  let  her  alone.  Things  ain't  got  so 
bad  but  what  Buck  is  still  willin'  to  have  her.  You 
wouldn't  marry  her." 

Stoddard  looked  down  at  the  shameful  old  man  with 
eyes  that  were  indecipherable.  If  the  impulse  was 
strong  in  him  to  twist  the  unclean  old  throat  against 
any  further  ill-speaking,  it  gave  no  heat  to  the  tone 
in  which  he  answered: 

"It's  you  and  your  kind  that  say  I  mean  harm  to 
Johnnie,  and  that  I  would  not  marry  her.  Why 
should  I  intend  ill  toward  her  ?  Why  shouldn't  I 
marry  her  ?  I  would  —  I  would  marry  her." 

As  he  made  this,  to  him  the  only  possible  defence 
of  the  poor  girl,  Pap  faltered  slowly  back,  uttering  a 
gurgling  expression  of  astonishment.  With  a  sense 
of  surprise  Stoddard  saw  in  his  face  only  dismay  and 
chagrin. 

"  Hit  —  hit's  a  lie,"  Himes  mumbled  half-heartedly. 
"Ye'd  never  do  it  in  the  world." 

Stoddard  gathered  up  his  bridle  rein,  preparatory 
to  moving  on. 


266   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

"You're  an  old  man,  Mr.  Himes,"  he  said  coldly, 
"and  you  are  excited;  but  you  don't  want  to  say  any 
more  —  that's  quite  enough  of  that  sort  of  thing." 

Then  he  loosened  the  rein  on  Roan  Sultan,  and 
moved  away  down  the  street. 

Gideon  Himes  stood  and  gazed  after  him  with  bulg 
ing  eyes.  Gray  Stoddard  married  to  Johnnie!  He 
tried  to  adjust  his  dull  wits  to  the  new  position  of  affairs; 
tried  to  cipher  the  problem  with  this  amazing  new 
element  introduced.  Last  night's  scene  of  violence 
when  the  injured  child  was  brought  home  went  dismally 
before  his  eyes.  Laurella  had  said  she  would  leave 
him  so  soon  as  she  could  put  foot  to  the  floor.  He  had 
expected  to  coax  her  with  gifts  and  money,  with  con 
cessions  in  regard  to  the  children  if  it  must  be;  but 
with  a  rich  man  for  a  son-in-law,  of  course  she  would 
go.  He  would  never  see  her  face  again.  And  suddenly 
he  flung  up  an  arm  like  a  beaten  schoolboy  and  began 
to  blubbler  noisily  in  the  crook  of  his  elbow. 

An  ungentle  hand  on  his  shoulder  recalled  him  to 
time  and  place. 

"For  God's  sake,  what's  the  matter  with  you?" 
inquired  Shade  Buckheath's  voice  harshly. 

The  old  man  gulped  down  his  grief  and  made  his 
communication  in  a  few  hurried  sentences. 

"An'  he'll  do  it,"  Pap  concluded.  "He's  jest  big 
enough  fool  for  anything.  Ain't  you  heard  of  his 
scheme  for  having  the  hands  make  the  money  in  the 
mill?"  (Thus  he  described  a  profit-sharing  plan.) 
"Don't  you  know  he's  given  ten  thousand  dollars  to 


LIGHT  267 

start  up  some  sort  o'  school  for  the  boys  and  gals  to 
learn  their  trade  in  ?  A  man  like  that'll  do  anything. 
And  if  he  marries  Johnnie,  Laurelly'll  leave  me  sure." 

"Leave  you!"  echoed  Buckheath  darkly.  "She 
won't  have  to.  If  Gray  Stoddard  marries  Johnnie 
Consadine,  you  and  me  will  just  about  roost  in  the 
penitentiary  for  the  rest  of  our  days." 

"The  patent!"  echoed  Pap  blankly.  He  turned 
fiercely  on  his  fellow  conspirator.  "  Now  see  what  ye 
done  with  yer  foolishness,"  he  exclaimed.  "Nothin' 
would  do  ye  but  to  be  offerin'  the  contraption  for  sale, 
and  tellin'  each  and  every  that  hit'd  been  used  in  the 
Hardwick  mill.  Look  what  a  mess  ye've  made.  I'm 
sorry  I  ever  hitched  up  with  ye.  Boy  o'  yo'  age  has 
got  no  sense." 

"How  was  I  to  know  they'd  write  to  Stoddard?" 
growled  Shade  sulkily.  "No  harm  did  if  hit  wasn't 
for  him.  We've  got  the  patent  all  right,  and  Johnnie 
cain't  help  herself.  But  him  —  with  all  his  money  — 
he  can  help  her  —  damn  him!" 

"Yes,  and  he'll  take  a  holt  and  hunt  up  about  Pros's 
silver  mine,  too,"  said  Himes.  "I've  always  mistrusted 
the  way  he's  been  hangin'  round  Pros  Passmore. 
Like  enough  he's  hearn  of  that  silver  mine,  and  that's 
the  reason  he's  after  Johnnie." 

The  old  man  paused  to  ruminate  on  this  feature  of 
the  case.  He  was  pleased  with  his  own  shrewdness 
in  fathoming  Gray  Stoddard's  mysterious  motives. 

"  Buck,"  he  said  finally,  with  a  swift  drop  to  friend 
liness,  "  hit's  got  to  be  stopped.  Can  you  stop  it  ? 


268   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

Didn't  you  tell  me  that  Johnnie  promised  last  night  to 
wed  you  ?  Didn't  you  say  she  promised  it,  when  you 
was  goin'  up  to  the  Victory  with  her  ?" 

Shade  nodded. 

"She  promised  she  would  if  I'd  get  you  to  let  the 
children  stay  out  of  the  mill.  Deanie's  hurt  now,  and 
you're  afraid  to  make  the  others  go  back  in  the  mill 
anyhow,  'count  of  Laurelly's  tongue.  I  can't  hold 
Johnnie  to  that  promise.  But  —  but  there's  one 
person  I  want  to  talk  to  about  this  business,  and  then 
I'll  be  ready  to  do  something." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

A    PACT 

WHILE  Himes  and  Buckheath  yet  stood  thus 
talking,  the  warning  whistles  of  the  various 
mills  began  to  blow.  Groups  of  girls  came 
down  the  steps  and  stared  at  the  two  men  conferring 
with  heads  close  together.  Mavity  Bence  put  her 
face  out  at  the  front  door  and  called. 

"Pap,  yo'  breakfast  is  gettin'  stone  cold." 

"  Do  you  have  to  go  to  the  mill  right  now  ?"  inquired 
the  older  man,  timorously.  He  was  already  under  the 
domination  of  this  swifter,  bolder,  more  fiery  spirit. 

"No,  I  don't  have  to  go  anywhere  that  I  don't  want 
to.  I've  got  business  with  a  certain  party  up  this-a- 
way,  and  when  I  git  to  the  mill  I'll  be  there." 

He  turned  and  hurried  swiftly  up  the  minor  slope 
that  led  to  the  big  Hardwick  home,  Pap's  fascinated 
eyes  following  him  as  long  as  he  was  in  sight.  As  the 
young  fellow  strode  along  he  was  turning  in  his  mind 
Lydia  Sessions's  promise  to  talk  to  him  this  morning 
about  Johnnie. 

"But  she'll  be  in  bed  and  asleep,  I  reckon,  at  this 
time  of  day,"  he  ruminated.  "The  good  Lord  knows 
I  would  if  I  had  the  chance  like  she  has." 

As  he  came  in  sight  of  the  Hardwick  house,  he 

269 


270   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

checked  momentarily.  Standing  at  the  gate,  an  aston 
ishing  figure,  still  in  her  evening  frock,  looking  haggard 
and  old  in  the  gray,  disillusioning  light  of  early  morning, 
was  Lydia  Sessions.  Upstairs,  her  white  bed  was 
smooth;  its  pillows  spread  fair  and  prim,  unpressed 
by  any  head,  since  the  maid  had  settled  them  trimly 
in  place  the  morning  before;  but  the  long  rug  which 
ran  from  her  dressing  table  to  the  window  might  have 
told  a  tale  of  pacing  feet  that  passed  restlessly  from 
midnight  till  dawn;  the  mirror  could  have  disclosed 
the  picture  of  a  white,  anxious,  and  often  angry  face 
that  had  stared  into  it  as  the  woman  paused  now  and 
again  to  commune  with  the  real  Lydia  Sessions. 

She  was  thirty  and  penniless.  She  belonged  to  a 
circle  where  everybody  had  money.  Her  sister  had 
married  well,  and  Harriet  was  no  better-looking  than 
she.  All  Lydia  Sessions's  considerable  forces  were 
by  heredity  and  training  turned  into  one  narrow  channel 
-  the  effort  to  make  a  creditable,  if  not  a  brilliant, 
match.  And  she  had  thought  she  was  succeeding. 
Gray  Stoddard  had  seemed  seriously  interested.  In 
those  long  night  watches  while  the  lights  flared  on 
either  side  of  her  mirror,  and  the  luxurious  room  of 
a  modern  young  lady  lay  disclosed,  with  all  its  sumptu 
ous  fittings  of  beauty  and  inutility,  Lydia  went  over 
her  plans  of  campaign.  She  was  a  suitable  match  for 
him  —  anybody  would  say  so.  He  had  liked  her  - 
he  had  liked  her  well  enough  —  till  he  got  interested 
in  this  mill  girl.  They  had  never  agreed  on  anything 
concerning  Johnnie  Consadine.  If  that  element  were 


A  PACT  271 

eliminated  to-morrow,  she  knew  she  could  go  back 
and  pick  up  the  thread  of  their  intimacy  which  had 
promised  so  well,  and,  she  doubted  not  at  all,  twist  it 
safely  into  a  marriage-knot.  If  Johnnie  were  only 
out  of  the  way.  If  she  would  leave  Cottonville.  If 
she  would  marry  that  good-looking  mechanic  who 
plainly  wanted  her.  How  silly  of  her  not  to  take  him! 

Toward  dawn,  she  snatched  a  little  cape  from  the 
garments  hanging  in  the  closet,  flung  it  over  her 
shoulders  and  ran  downstairs.  She  must  have  a  breath 
of  fresh  air.  So,  in  the  manner  of  helpless  creatures 
who  cannot  go  out  in  the  highway  to  accost  fate,  she 
was  standing  at  the  gate  when  she  caught  sight  of 
Shade  Buckheath  approaching.  Here  was  her  oppor 
tunity.  She  must  be  doing  something,  and  the  nearest 
enterprise  at  hand  was  to  foster  and  encourage  this 
young  fellow's  pursuit  of  Johnnie. 

"I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about  a  very  particular 
matter,"  she  broke  out  nervously,  as  soon  as  Buckheath 
was  near  enough  to  be  addressed  in  the  carefully 
lowered  tone  which  she  used  throughout  the  interview. 
She  continually  huddled  the  light  cape  together  at  the 
neck  with  tremulous,  unsteady  fingers;  and  it  was 
characteristic  of  these  two  that,  although  the  woman 
had  heard  of  the  calamity  at  the  Victory  mill  the  night 
before,  and  knew  that  Shade  came  directly  from  the 
Himes  home,  she  made  no  inquiry  as  to  the  welfare 
of  Deanie,  and  he  offered  no  information.  He  gave 
no  reply  in  words  to  her  accost,  and  she  went  on,  with 
increasing  agitation. 


272   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

"I  —  this  matter  ought  to  be  attended  to  at  once. 
Something's  got  to  be  done.  I've  attempted  to  improve 
the  social  and  spiritual  conditions  of  these  girls  in  the 
mill,  and  if  I've  only  worked  harm  by  bringing  them 
in  contact  with  —  in  contact  with  - 

She  hesitated  and  stood  looking  into  the  man's 
face.  Buckheath  knew  exactly  what  she  wished  to 
say.  He  was  impatient  of  the  flummery  she  found  it 
necessary  to  wind  around  her  simple  proposition; 
but  he  was  used  to  women,  he  understood  them; 
and  to  him  a  woman  of  Miss  Sessions's  class  was  no 
different  from  a  woman  of  his  own. 

"  I  reckon  you  wanted  to  name  it  to  me  about  Johnnie 
Consadine,"  he  said  bluntly. 

"Yes — yes,  that  was  it,"  breathed  Lydia  Sessions, 
glancing  back  toward  the  house  with  a  frightened  air. 
"John  is  —  she's  a  good  girl,  Mr.  Buckheath;  I  beg 
of  you  to  believe  me  when  I  assure  you  that  John  is  a 
good,  honest,  upright  girl.  I  would  not  think  anything 
else  for  a  minute;  but  it  seems  to  me  that  somebody  has 
to  do  something,  or  —  or  - 

Shade  raised  his  hand  to  his  mouth  to  conceal  the 
swift,  sarcastic  smile  on  his  lips.  He  spat  toward  the 
pathside  before  agreeing  seriously  with  Miss  Lydia. 

"Her  and  me  was  promised,  before  she  come  down 
here  and  got  all  this  foolishness  into  her  head,"  he  said 
finally.  "Her  mother  never  could  do  anything  with 
Johnnie.  Looks  like  Johnnie's  got  more  authority  - 
her  mother's  more  like  a  little  girl  to  her  than  the  other 
way  round.  Her  uncle  Pros  has  been  crazy  in  the 


A  PACT  273 

hospital,  and  Pap  Himes,  her  stepfather  —  well,  I 
reckon  she's  the  only  human  that  ever  had  to  mind 
Pap  and  didn't  do  it." 

This  somewhat  ambiguous  statement  of  the  case 
failed  to  bring  any  smile  to  his  hearer's  lips. 

"There's  no  use  talking  to  John  herself,"  Miss 
Lydia  took  up  the  tale  feverishly.  "I've  done  that, 
and  it  had  no  effect  on  — .  Well,  of  course  she  would 
say  that  she  didn't  encourage  him  to  the  things  I  saw 
afterward;  but  I  know  that  a  man  of  his  sort  does  not 
do  things  without  encouragement,  and  —  Mr.  Buck- 
heath  don't  you  think  you  ought  to  go  right  to  Mr. 
Stoddard  and  tell  him  that  John  is  your  promised  wife, 
and  show  him  the  folly  and  —  and  the  wickedness  of 
his  course  —  or  what  would  be  wickedness  if  he  per 
sisted  in  it  ?  Don't  you  think  you  ought  to  do  that  ?" 

Shade  held  down  his  head  and  appeared  to  be  giving 
this  matter  some  consideration.  The  weak  point  of 
such  an  argument  lay  in  the  fact  that  Johnnie  was  not 
his  promised  wife,  and  Gray  Stoddard  was  very  likely 
to  know  it.  Indeed,  Lydia  Sessions  herself  only 
believed  the  statement  because  she  so  wished. 

"I  reckon  I  ort,"  he  said  finally.  "If  I  could  ever  get 
a  chance  of  private  speech  with  him,  mebbe  I'd 

There  came  a  sound  of  light  hoofs  down  the  road,  and 
Stoddard  on  Roan  Sultan,  riding  bareheaded,  came 
toward  them  under  the  trees. 

Miss  Sessions  clutched  the  gate  and  stood  staring. 
Buckheath  drew  a  little  closer,  set  his  shoulder  against 
the  fence  and  tried  to  look  unconcerned.  The  rising 


274   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

sun  behind  the  mountains  threw  long  slant  rays  across 
into  the  bare  tree  tops,  so  that  the  shimmer  of  it  dappled 
horse  and  man.  Gray's  face  was  pale,  his  brow  looked 
anxious;  but  he  rode  head  up  and  alert,  and  glanced 
with  surprise  at  the  two  at  the  Sessions  gate.  He 
had  no  hat  to  raise,  but  he  saluted  Lydia  Sessions 
with  a  sweeping  gesture  of  the  hand  and  passed  on.  A 
blithe,  gallant  figure  cantering  along  the  suburban 
road,  out  toward  the  Gap,  and  the  mountains  beyond, 
Gray  Stoddard  rode  into  the  dip  of  the  ridge  and  —  so 
far  as  Cottonville  was  concerned  —  vanished  utterly. 

Buckheath  drew  a  long  breath  and  straightened  up. 

"I'm  but  a  poor  man,"  he  began  truculently,  "yit 
there  ain't  nobody  can  marry  the  gal  I  set  out  to  wed 
and  me  stand  by  and  say  nothing." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Buckheath!"  cried  Miss  Lydia.  "Mr. 
Stoddard  had  no  idea  of  marrying  John  —  a  mill  girl! 
There  is  no  possibility  of  any  such  thing  as  that.  I 
want  you  to  understand  that  there  isn't  —  to  feel 
assured,  once  for  all.  I  have  reason  to  know,  and  I 
urge  you  to  put  that  out  of  your  mind." 

Shade  looked  at  her  narrowly.  Up  to  the  time  Pap 
gave  him  definite  information  from  headquarters, 
he  had  never  for  an  instant  supposed  that  there  was  a 
possibility  of  Stoddard  desiring  to  marry  Johnnie; 
but  the  flurried  eagerness  of  Miss  Sessions  convinced 
him  that  such  a  possibility  was  a  very  present  dread 
with  her,  and  he  sent  a  venomous  glance  after  the 
disappearing  horseman. 

"You  go  and  talk  to  him  right  now,  Mr.  Buckheath," 


A  PACT  275 

insisted  Lydia  anxiously.  "Tell  him,  just  as  you  have 
told  me,  how  long  you  and  John  have  been  engaged, 
and  how  devoted  she  was  to  you  before  she  came  down 
to  the  mill.  You  appeal  to  him  that  way.  You  can 
overtake  him  —  I  mean  you  can  intercept  him  —  if 
you  start  right  on  now  —  cut  across  the  turn,  and  go 
through  the  tunnel." 

"  If  I  go  after  him  to  talk  to  him,  and  we  —  uh  — 
we  have  an  interruption  —  are  you  going  to  tell  every 
body  you  see  about  it?"  demanded  Shade  sharply, 
staring  down  at  the  woman. 

She  crouched  a  little,  still  clinging  to  the  pickets 
of  the  gate.  The  word  "interruption"  only  conveyed 
to  her  mind  the  suggestion  that  they  might  be  interfered 
with  in  their  conversation.  She  did  not  recollect  the 
mountain  use  of  it  to  describe  a  quarrel,  an  outbreak, 
or  an  affray. 

"No,"  she  whispered.  "Oh,  certainly  not  —  I'll 
never  tell  anything  that  you  don't  want  me  to." 

"All  right,"  returned  Buckheath  hardily.  "If  you 
won't,  I  won't.  If  you  name  to  people  that  I  was  the 
last  one  saw  with  Mr.  Stoddard,  I  shall  have  obliged  to 
tell  'em  of  what  you  and  me  was  talkin'  about  when  he 
passed  us.  You  see  that,  don't  you?" 

She  nodded  silently,  her  frightened  eyes  on  his  face; 
and  without  another  word  he  set  off  at  that  long,  swing 
ing  pace  which  belongs  to  his  people.  Lydia  turned 
and  ran  swiftly  into  the  house,  and  up  the  stairs  to  her 
own  room. 


CHAPTER  XX 

MISSING 

WHEN  Stoddard  did  not  come  to  his  desk  that 
morning  the  matter  remained  for  a  time 
unnoticed,  except  by  McPherson,  who  fret 
ted  a  bit  at  so  unusual  a  happening.  Truth  to  tell,  the 
old  Scotchman  had  dreaded  having  this  rich  young 
man  for  an  associate,  and  had  put  a  rod  in  pickle  for 
his  chastisement.  When  Stoddard  turned  out  to  be  a 
regular  worker,  punctual,  amenable  to  discipline,  he 
congratulated  himself,  and  praised  his  assistant,  but 
warily.  Now  came  the  first  delinquency,  and  in  his 
heart  he  cared  more  that  Stoddard  should  absent 
himself  without  notice  than  for  the  pile  of  letters  lying 
untouched. 

"Dave,"  he  finally  said  to  the  yellow  office  boy,  "I 
wish  you'd  'phone  to  Mr.  Stoddard's  place  and  see 
when  he'll  be  down." 

Dave  came  back  with  the  information  that  Mr. 
Stoddard  was  not  at  the  house;  he  had  left  for  an 
early-morning  ride,  and  not  returned  to  his  breakfast. 

"He'll  just  about  have  stopped  up  at  the  Country 
Club  for  a  snack,"  MacPherson  muttered  to  himself. 
"I  wonder  who  or  what  he  found  there  attractive 
enough  to  keep  him  from  his  work." 

276 


MISSING  277 

Looking  into  Gray's  office  at  noon,  the  closed  desk 
with  its  pile  of  mail  once  more  offended  MacPherson's 
eye. 

"Mr.  Stoddard  here?"  inquired  Hartley  Sessions, 
glancing  in  at  the  same  moment. 

"No,  I  think  not,"  returned  the  Scotchman,  unwilling 
to  admit  that  he  did  not  exactly  know.  "I  believe 
he's  up  at  the  club.  Perhaps  he's  got  tangled  in  for 
a  longer  game  of  golf  than  he  reckoned  on." 

This  unintentional  and  wholly  innocent  falsehood 
stopped  any  inquiry  that  there  might  have  been. 
MacPherson  had  meant  to  'phone  the  club  during  the 
day,  but  he  failed  to  do  so,  and  it  was  not  until  evening 
that  he  walked  up  himself  to  put  more  cautious 
inquiries. 

"No,  sah  —  no,  sah,  Mr.  Gray  ain't  been  here," 
the  Negro  steward  told  him  promptly.  "  I  sure  would 
have  remembered,  sah,"  in  answer  to  a  startled  inquiry 
from  MacPherson.  "Dey  been  havin'  a  big  game  on 
between  Mr.  Charley  Conroy  and  Mr.  Hardwick, 
and  de  bofe  of  'em  spoke  of  Mr.  Gray,  and  said  dey 
was  expectin'  him  to  play." 

MacPherson  came  down  the  stone  steps  of  the  club 
house,  gravely  disquieted.  Below  him  the  road  wound, 
a  dimly  conjectured,  wavering  gray  ribbon;  on  the 
other  side  of  it  the  steep  slope  took  off  to  a  gulf  of  inky 
shadow,  where  the  great  valley  lay,  hushed  under  the 
solemn  stars,  silent,  black,  and  shimmering  with  a 
myriad  pulsating  electric  lights  which  glowed  like 
swarms  of  fireflies  caught  in  an  invisible  net.  That 


278   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

was  Watauga.  The  strings  of  brilliants  that  led  from 
it  were  arc  lights  at  switch  crossings  where  the  great 
railway  lines  rayed  out.  Near  at  hand  was  Cottonville 
with  its  vast  bulks  of  lighted  mills  whose  hum  came 
faintly  up  to  him  even  at  this  distance.  MacPherson 
stood  uncertainly  in  the  middle  of  the  road.  Supper 
and  bed  were  behind  him.  But  he  had  not  the  heart 
to  turn  back  to  either.  Somewhere  down  in  that  abyss 
of  night,  there  was  a  clue  —  or  there  were  many  clues  - 
to  this  strange  absence  of  Gray  Stoddard.  Perhaps 
Gray  himself  was  there;  and  the  Scotchman  cursed 
his  own  dilatoriness  in  waiting  till  darkness  had  covered 
the  earth  before  setting  afoot  inquiries. 

He  found  himself  hurrying  and  getting  out  of  breath 
as  he  took  his  way  down  the  ridge  and  straight  to  Stod- 
dard's  cottage,  only  to  find  that  the  master's  horse  was 
not  in  the  stable,  and  the  Negro  boy  who  cared  for  it 
had  seen  nothing  of  it  or  its  rider  since  five  o'clock  that 
morning. 

"I  wonder,  now,  should  I  give  the  alarm  to  Hard- 
wick,"  MacPherson  said  to  himself.  "  The  lad  may  have 
just  ridden  on  to  La  Fayette,  or  some  little  nearby  town, 
and  be  staying  the  night.  Young  fellows  sometimes 
have  affairs  they'd  rather  not  share  with  everybody  - 
and  then,  there's  Miss  Lydia.  If  I  go  up  to  Hardwick's 
with  the  story,  she'll  be  sure  to  hear  it  from  Hardwick's 
wife." 

"Did  Mr.  Stoddard  ever  go  away  like  this  before 
without  giving  you  notice?"  he  asked  with  apparer»«- 
carelessness. 


MISSING  279 

The  boy  shook  his  head  in  vigorous  negative. 

"Never  since  I've  been  working  for  him,"  he  asserted. 
"Mr.  Stoddard  wasn't  starting  anywhere  but  for  his 
early  ride  —  at  least  he  wasn't  intending  to.  He 
hadn't  any  hat  on,  and  he  was  in  his  riding  clothes. 
He  didn't  carry  anything  with  him.  I  know  in  reason 
he  wasn't  intending  to  stay." 

This  information  sent  MacPherson  hurrying  to  the 
Hardwick  home.  Dinner  was  over.  The  master  of 
the  house  conferred  with  him  a  moment  in  the  vestibule, 
then  opened  the  door  into  the  little  sitting  room  and 
asked  abruptly: 

"When  was  the  last  time  any  of  you  saw  Gray 
Stoddard?" 

His  sister-in-law  screamed  faintly,  then  cowered  in 
her  chair  and  stared  at  him  mutely.  But  Mrs.  Hard- 
wick  as  yet  noted  nothing  unusual. 

"  Yesterday  evening,"  she  returned  placidly.  "  Don't 
you  remember,  Jerome,  he  was  here  at  the  Lyric 
reception  ?" 

"Oh,  I  remember  well  enough,"  said  Hardwick 
knitting  his  brows.  "I  thought  some  of  you  might 
have  seen  him  since  then.  He's  missing." 

"Missing!"  echoed  Lydia  Sessions  with  a  note  of 
terror  in  her  tones. 

Now  Mrs.   Hardwick  looked  startled. 

"But,  Jerome,  I  think  you're  inconsiderate,"  she 
began,  glancing  solicitously  at  her  sister.  "Under  the 
circumstances,  it  seems  to  me  you  might  have  made 
your  announcement  more  gently  —  to  Lydia,  anyhow. 


28o   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

Never    mind,    dearie  —  there's    nothing    in    it    to    be 
frightened  at." 

"I'm  not  frightened,"  whispered  Lydia  Sessions 
through  white  lips  that  belied  her  assertion.  Hardwick 
looked  impatiently  from  his  sister-in-law  to  his  wife. 

"I'm  sorry  if  I  startled  you,  Lydia,"  he  said  in  a 
perfunctory  tone,  "but  this  is  a  serious  business. 
MacPherson  tells  me  Stoddard  hasn't  been  at  the 
factory  nor  at  his  boarding-house  to-day.  The  last 
person  who  saw  him,  so  far  as  we  know,  is  his  stable 
boy.  Black  Jim  says  Stoddard  rode  out  of  the  gate 
at  five  o'clock  this  morning,  bareheaded  and  in  his 
riding  clothes.  Have  any  of  you  seen  him  since  - 
that's  what  I  want  to  know  ?" 

"Since?"  repeated  Miss  Sessions,  who  seemed 
unable  to  get  beyond  the  parrot  echoing  of  her  ques 
tioner's  words.  "Why  Jerome,  what  makes  you  think 
I've  seen  him  since  then  ?  Did  he  say  —  did  anybody 
tell  you  - 

She  broke  off  huskily  and  sat  staring  at  her  interlaced 
fingers  dropped  in  her  lap. 

"No  —  no.  Of  course  not,  Lydia,"  her  sister 
hastened  to  reassure  her,  crossing  the  room  and  putting 
a  protecting  arm  about  the  girl's  shoulders.  "He 
shouldn't  have  spoken  as  he  did,  knowing  that  you 
and  Gray  —  knowing  how  affairs  stand." 

"Well,  I  only  thought  since  you  and  Stoddard  are 
such  great  friends,"  Hardwick  persisted,  "he  might 
have  mentioned  to  you  some  excursion,  or  made  oppor 
tunity  to  talk  with  you  alone,  sometime  last  night  - 


MISSING  281 

to  —  to  say  something.  Did  he  tell  you  where  he  was 
going,  Lydia  ?  Are  you  keeping  something  from 
us  that  we  ought  to  know?  Remember  this  is  no 
child's  play.  It  begins  to  look  as  though  it  might  be 
a  question  of  the  man's  life." 

Lydia  Sessions  started  galvanically.  She  pushed 
off  her  sister's  caressing  hand  with  a  fierce  gesture. 

"There's  nothing  -  no  such  relation  as  you're 
hinting  at,  Elizabeth,  between  Gray  Stoddard  and  me," 
she  said  sharply.  Memory  of  what  Gray  had  (as  she 
supposed)  followed  her  into  the  library  to  say  to  her 
wrung  a  sort  of  groan  from  the  girl.  "I  suppose 
Matilda's  told  you  that  we  had  —  had  some  conversa 
tion  in  the  library,"  she  managed  to  say. 

Her  brother-in-law  shook  his  head. 

"We  haven't  questioned  the  servants  yet,"  he  said 
briefly.  "  We  haven't  questioned  anybody  nor  hunted  up 
any  evidence.  MacPherson  came  direct  to  me  from 
Stoddard's  stable  boy.  Gray  did  stop  and  talk  to  you 
last  night?  What  did  he  say?" 

"I  —  why  nothing  in  —  I  really  don't  remember," 
faltered  Lydia,  with  so  strange  a  look  that  both  her 
sister  and  Hardwick  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  "That 
is  —  oh,  nothing  of  any  importance,  you  know.  I  —  I 
believe  we  were  talking  about  socialism,  and  —  and 
different  classes  of  people.  .  .  .  That  sort  of  thing." 

MacPherson,  who  had  pushed  unceremoniously  into 
the  room  behind  his  employer,  nodded  his  gray  head. 
"That  would  always  be  what  he  was  speaking  of." 
He  smiled  a  little  as  he  said  it. 


282   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

"All  right,"  returned  Hardwick,  struggling  into  his 
overcoat  at  the  hat-tree,  and  seeking  his  hat  and  stick, 
"I'll  go  right  back  with  you,  Mac.  This  thing  some 
how  has  a  sinister  look  to  me." 

As  the  two  men  were  leaving  the  house,  Hardwick 
felt  a  light,  trembling  touch  on  his  arm,  and  turned  to 
face  his  sister-in-law. 

" Why  --  Jerome,  why  did  you  say  that  last?" 
Lydia  quavered.  "What  do  you  think  has  happened 
to  him  ?  Do  you  think  anybody  -  -  that  is  —  ?  Oh, 
you  looked  at  me  as  though  you  thought  I  had  some 
thing  to  do  with  it!" 

"Come,  come,  Lyd.  Pull  yourself  together.  You're 
getting  hysterical,"  urged  Hardwick  kindly.  Then  he 
turned  to  MacPherson.  As  the  two  men  went  compan- 
ionably  down  the  walk  and  out  into  the  street,  the 
Scotchman  said  apologetically: 

"  Of  course,  I  knew  Miss  Lydia  would  be  alarmed.  I 
understand  about  her  and  Stoddard.  It  made  mehesitate 
a  while  before  coming  up  to  you  folks  with  the  thing." 

"Well,  by  the  Lord,  you  did  well  not  to  hesitate  too 
long,  Mac!"  ejaculated  Hardwick.  "I  shouldn't  feel 
the  anxiety  I  do  if  we  hadn't  been  having  trouble  with 
those  mountain  people  up  toward  Flat  Rock  over  that 
girl  that  died  at  the  hospital."  He  laughed  a  little 
ruefully.  'Trying  to  do  things  for  folks  is  ticklish 
business.  There  wasn't  a  man  in  the  crowd  that  inter 
viewed  me  whom  I  could  convince  that  our  hospital 
wasn't  a  factory  for  the  making  of  stiffs  which  we  sold 
to  the  Northern  Medical  College.  Oh,  it  was  gruesome! 


MISSING  283 

I  told  them  the  girl  had  had  every  attention,  and  that 
she  died  of  pernicious  anaemia.  They  called  it  'a 
big  die  word'  and  asked  me  point  blank  if  the  girl 
hadn't  been  killed  in  the  mill.  I  told  them  that  we 
couldn't  keep  the  body  indefinitely,  and  they  said  they 
'aimed  to  come  and  haul  it  away  as  soon  as  they  could 
get  a  horse  and  wagon.'  I  called  their  attention  to 
the  fact  that  I  couldn't  know  this  unless  they  wrote 
and  told  me  so  in  answer  to  my  letter.  But  between 
you  and  me,  Mac,  I  don't  believe  there  was  a  man  in 
the  crowd  who  could  read  or  write." 

"For  God's  sake!"  exclaimed  the  Scotchman. 
"You  don't  think  those  people  were  up  to  doing  a 
mischief  to  Stoddard,  do  you  ?" 

"I  don't  know  what  to  think,"  protested  Hardwick. 
"Yes;  they  are  mediaeval  —  half  savage.  The  fact 
is,  I  have  no  idea  what  they  would  or  what  they 
wouldn't  do." 

MacPherson  gave  a  whistle  of  dismay. 

"Gad,  it  sounds  like  the  manoeuvres  of  one  of  our 
Highland  clans  three  hundred  years  ago!"  he  said. 
"Wouldn't  it  be  the  irony  of  fate  that  Stoddard  —  poor 
fellow!  —  a  friend  of  the  people,  a  socialist,  ready  to 
call  every  man  his  brother  —  should  be  sacrificed  in 
such  a  way  ?" 

The  words  brought  them  to  Stoddard's  little  home, 
silent  and  deserted  now.  Down  the  street,  the  lamps 
flared  gustily.  It  was  after  eleven  o'clock. 

"Where  does  that  boy  live  that  takes  care  of  the 
horses  —  black  Jim  ?"  Hardwick  inquired,  after  they 


284   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

had  rung  the  bell,  thumped  on  the  door,  and  called, 
to  make  sure  the  master  had  not  returned  during 
MacPherson's  absence. 

"  I  don't  know  —  really,  I  don't  know.  He  might 
have  a  room  over  the  stable,"  MacPherson  suggested. 

But  the  stable  proved  to  be  a  one-story  affair,  and 
they  were  just  turning  to  leave  when  a  stamping  sound 
within  arrested  their  notice. 

"Good  God!  —  what's  that?"  ejaculated  Mac 
Pherson,  whose  nerves  were  quivering. 

"It's  the  horse,"  answered  Hardwick  in  a  relieved 
tone.  "Stoddard's  got  back  - 

"Of  course,"  broke  in  old  MacPherson,  quickly, 
"and  gone  over  to  Mrs.  Gandish's  for  some  supper. 
That  is  why  he  wasn't  in  the  house." 

To  make  assurance  doubly  sure,  they  opened  the 
unlocked  stable  door,  and  MacPherson  struck  a  match. 
The  roan  turned  and  whinnied  hungrily  at  sight  of  them. 

'That's  funny,"  said  Hardwick,  scarcely  above  his 
breath.  "It  looks  to  me  as  though  that  animal  hadn't 
been  fed." 

In  the  flare  of  the  match  MacPherson  had  descried 
the  stable  lantern  hanging  on  the  wall.  They  lit  this 
and  examined  the  stall.  There  was  no  feed  in  the  box, 
no  hay  in  the  manger.  The  saddle  was  on  Gray 
Stoddard's  horse;  the  bit  in  his  mouth;  he  was  tied  by 
the  reins  to  his  stall  ring.  The  two  men  looked  at  each 
other  with  lengthening  faces. 

"  Stoddard's  too  good  a  horseman  to  have  done  that," 
spoke  Hardwick  slowly. 


MISSING  285 

"And  too  kind  a  man,"  supplied  MacPherson  loyally. 
"  He'd  have  seen  to  the  beast's  hunger  before  he  satisfied 
his  own." 

As  the  Scotchman  spoke  he  was  picking  up  the  horse's 
hoofs,  and  digging  at  them  with  a  bit  of  stick. 

'They're  as  clean  as  if  they'd  just  been  washed," 
he  said,  as  he  straightened  up.  "By  Heaven!  I  have 
it,  Hardwick  —  that  fellow  came  into  town  with  his 
hoofs  muffled." 

The  younger  man  looked  also,  and  assented  mutely, 
then  suggested: 

"  He  hasn't  come  far;  there's  not  a  hair  turned  on  him." 

The  Scotchman  shook  his  head.  "I'm  not  sure  of 
that,"  he  debated.  "Likely  he's  been  led,  and  that 
slowly.  God  —  this  is  horrible!" 

Mechanically  Hardwick  got  some  hay  down  for  the 
horse,  while  MacPherson  pulled  off  the  saddle  and 
bridle,  examining  both  in  the  process.  Grain  was 
poured  into  the  box,  and  then  water  offered. 

"He  won't  drink,"  murmured  the  Scotchman. 
"D'ye  see,  Hardwick  ?  He  won't  drink.  You  can't 
come  into  Cottonville  without  crossing  a  stream. 
This  fellow's  hoofs  have  been  wet  within  an  hour  — 
yes,  within  the  half-hour." 

As  their  eyes  encountered,  Hardwick  caught  his 
breath  sharply;  both  felt  that  chill  of  the  cuticle,  that 
stirring  at  the  roots  of  the  hair,  that  marks  the  passing 
close  to  us  of  some  sinister  thing  —  stark  murder, 
or  man's  naked  hatred  walking  in  the  dark  beside  our 
cheerful,  commonplace  path.  By  one  consent  they 


turned  back  from  the  stable  and  went  together  to  Mrs. 
Gandish's.  The  house  was  dark. 

"Of  course,  you  know  I  don't  expect  to  find  him 
here,"  said  Hardwick.  "I  don't  suppose  they  know 
anything  about  the  matter.  But  we've  got  to  wake 
them  and  ask." 

They  did  so,  and  set  trembling  the  first  wave  of  that 
widening  ring  of  horror  which  finally  informed  the 
remotest  boundaries  of  the  little  village  that  a  man 
from  their  midst  was  mysteriously  missing. 

The  morning  found  the  telegraph  in  active  requisi 
tion,  flashing  up  and  down  all  lines  by  which  a  man 
might  have  left  Cottonville  or  Watauga.  The  police 
of  the  latter  place  were  notified,  furnished  with  informa 
tion,  and  set  to  find  out  if  possible  whether  anybody 
in  the  city  had  seen  Stoddard  since  he  rode  away  on 
Friday  morning. 

The  inquiries  were  fruitless.  A  young  lady  visiting 
in  the  city  had  promised  him  a  dance  at  the  Valentine 
masque  to  be  held  at  the  Country  Club-house  Friday 
night.  Some  clothing  put  out  a  few  days  before  to  be 
cleaned  and  pressed  was  ready  for  delivery.  His 
laundry  came  home.  His  mail  arrived  punctually. 
The  postmaster  stated  that  he  had  no  instructions  for  a 
change  of  address;  all  the  little  accessories  of  Gray 
Stoddard's  life  offered  themselves,  mute,  impressive 
witnesses  that  he  had  intended  to  go  on  with  it  in  Cotton 
ville.  But  Stoddard  himself  had  dropped  as  completely 
out  of  the  knowledge  of  man  as  though  he  had  been 
whisked  off  the  planet. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE    SEARCH 

THE  fruitless  search  was  vigorously  prosecuted. 
On  Saturday  the  Hardwick  mill  ran  short- 
handed  while  nearly  half  its  male  employees 
made  some  effort  to  solve  the  mystery.  Parties  combed 
again  and  again  the  nearer  mountains.  Sunday  all 
the  mill  operatives  were  free;  and  then  groups  of  women 
and  children  added  themselves  to  the  men;  dinners 
were  taken  along,  lending  a  grotesque  suggestion  of 
picnicking  to  the  work,  a  suggestion  contradicted  by 
the  anxious  faces,  the  strained  timbre  of  the  voices  that 
called  from  group  to  group.  But  night  brought  the 
amateur  searchers  straggling  home  with  nothing  to 
tell.  It  should  have  been  significant  to  any  one  who 
knew  the  mountain  people,  that  information  concerning 
Gray  Stoddard  within  a  week  of  his  disappearance,  was 
noticeably  lacking.  Nobody  would  admit  that  his  had 
been  a  familiar  figure  on  those  roads.  At  the  utmost 
they  had  "seed  him  a  good  deal  a  while  ago,  but  he'd 
sorter  quit  riding  up  this-a-way  of  late."  But  on  no 
road  could  there  be  found  man,  woman,  or  child  who 
had  seen  Gray  Stoddard  riding  Friday  morning  on  his 
roan  horse.  The  whole  outlying  district  seemed  to  be 
in  a  conspiracy  of  silence. 

287 


288   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

In  Watauga  and  in  Cottonville  itself,  clues  were 
found  by  the  police,  followed  up  and  proved  worthless. 
All  Gray's  Eastern  connections  were  immediately 
communicated  with  by  telegraph,  in  the  forlorn  hope 
of  finding  some  internal  clue.  The  business  men  in 
charge  of  his  large  Eastern  interests  answered  promptly 
that  nothing  from  recent  correspondence  with  him 
pointed  to  any  intention  on  his  part  of  making  a 
journey  or  otherwise  changing  his  ordinary  way  of 
living.  They  added  urgent  admonitions  to  Mr.  Mac- 
Pherson  to  have  locked  up  in  the  Company's  safe 
various  important  papers  which  they  had  sent,  at 
Stoddard's  request,  for  signature,  and  which  they 
supposed  from  the  date,  must  be  lying  with  his  other 
mail.  A  boyhood  friend  telegraphed  his  intention 
of  coming  down  from  Massachusetts  and  joining  the 
searchers.  Stoddard  had  no  near  relatives.  A  grand- 
aunt,  living  in  Boston,  telegraphed  to  Mr.  Hardwick 
to  see  that  money  be  spent  freely. 

Meantime  there  was  reason  for  Johnnie  Consadine, 
shut  in  the  little  sister's  sick  room  day  and  night,  to 
hear  nothing  of  these  matters.  Lissy  had  been  allowed 
to  help  wait  upon  the  injured  child  only  on  promise 
that  nothing  exciting  should  be  mentioned.  Both 
boys  had  instantly  begged  to  join  a  searching  party, 
Milo  insisting  that  he  could  work  all  night  and  search 
all  day,  and  that  nobody  should  complain  that  he 
neglected  his  job.  Pony,  being  refused,  had  run  away; 
Milo  the  rulable  followed  to  get  him  to  return;  and  by 
Sunday  night  Mavity  was  feeding  both  boys  from  the 


THE   SEARCH  289 

back  door  and  keeping  them  out  of  sight  of  Pap's 
vengeance.  Considering  that  Johnnie  had  trouble 
enough,  she  cautioned  everybody  on  the  place  to  say 
nothing  of  these  matters  to  the  girl.  Mandy,  a  feeble, 
unsound  creature  at  best,  was  more  severely  injured 
than  had  been  thought.  She  was  confined  to  her  bed 
for  days.  Pap  went  about  somewhat  like  a  whipped 
dog,  spoke  little  on  any  subject,  and  tolerated  no 
mention  of  the  topic  of  the  day  in  Cotton ville;  his  face 
kept  the  boarders  quiet  at  table  and  in  the  house,  any 
how.  Shade  Buckheath  never  entered  the  place  after 
Deanie  was  carried  in  from  the  hastily  summoned 
carriage  Thursday  night. 

The  doctors  told  them  that  if  Deanie  survived  the 
shock  and  its  violent  reaction,  she  had  a  fair  chance  of 
recovery.  They  found  at  once  that  she  was  not  inter 
nally  injured;  the  blood  that  had  been  seen  came  only 
from  a  cut  lip.  But  the  child's  left  arm  was  broken,  the 
small  body  was  dreadfully  bruised,  and  the  terror  had 
left  a  profound  mental  disturbance.  Nothing  but 
quiet  and  careful  nursing  offered  any  good  hope;  while 
there  was  the  menace  that  she  would  never  be  strong 
again,  and  might  not  live  to  womanhood. 

At  first  she  lay  with  half-closed,  glazed  eyes,  barely 
breathing,  a  ghastly  sight.  Then,  when  she  roused  a 
bit,  she  wanted,  not  Lissy,  not  even  Johnnie;  she 
called  for  her  mother. 

When  her  child  was  brought  home  to  her,  dying  as 
they  all  thought,  Laurella  had  rallied  her  forces  and 
got  up  from  the  pallet  on  which  she  lay  to  tend  on  the 


290   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

little  thing;  but  she  broke  down  in  the  course  of  a  few 
hours,  and  seemed  about  to  add  another  patient  to 
Johnnie's  cares. 

Yet  when  the  paroxysms  of  terror  shook  the  emaciated 
frame,  and  the  others  attempted  to  reassure  Deanie  by 
words,  it  was  her  mother  who  called  for  a  bit  of  gay 
calico,  for  scissors  and  needle  and  thread,  and  began 
dressing  a  doll  in  the  little  sufferer's  sight.  Laurella 
had  carried  unspoiled  the  faculty  for  play,  up  with  her 
through  the  years. 

"Let  her  be,"  the  doctor  counselled  Johnnie,  in 
reply  to  anxious  inquiries.  "  Don't  you  see  she's 
getting  the  child's  attention  ?  The  baby  notices.  An 
ounce  of  happiness  is  worth  a  pound  of  any  medicine 
I  could  bring." 

And  so,  when  Laurella  could  no  longer  sit  up,  they 
brought  another  cot  for  her,  and  she  lay  all  day  babbling 
childish  nonsense,  and  playing  dolls  within  hand- 
reach  of  the  sick-bed;  while  Johnnie  with  Lissy's  help, 
tended  on  them  both. 

"You've  got  two  babies  now,  you  big,  old,  solemn 
Johnnie,"  Laurella  said,  with  a  ghost  of  her  spark 
ling  smile.  "Deanie  and  me  is  just  of  one  age,  and 
that's  a  fact." 

If  Pap  wanted  to  see  his  young  wife  —  and  thirst 
for  a  sight  of  her  was  a  continual  craving  with  him; 
she  was  the  light  of  the  old  sinner's  eyes  —  he  had  to 
go  in  and  look  on  the  child  he  had  injured.  This 
kept  him  away  pretty  effectually  after  that  first  fiery 
scene,  when  Laurella  had  flown  at  him  like  a  fierce  little 


THE   SEARCH  291 

vixen  and  told  him  that  she  never  wanted  to  see  his 
face  again,  that  she  rued  the  day  she  married  him,  and 
intended  to  leave  him  as  soon  as  she  could  put  foot  to 
the  ground. 

In  the  gray  dawn  of  Monday  morning,  when  Johnnie 
was  downstairs  eating  her  bit  of  early  breakfast,  Pap 
shambled  in  to  make  Laurella's  fire.  Having  got  the 
hickory  wood  to  blazing,  he  sat  humped  and  shame 
faced  by  the  bedside  a  while,  whispering  to  his  wife  and 
holding  her  hand,  a  sight  for  the  student  of  man  to 
marvel  at.  He  had  brought  a  paper  of  coarse,  cheap 
candy  for  Deanie,  but  the  child  was  asleep.  The 
offering  was  quite  as  acceptable  to  Laurella,  and  she 
nibbled  a  stick  as  she  listened  to  him. 

The  bald  head  with  its  little  fringe  of  grizzled  curls, 
bent  close  to  the  dark,  slant-browed,  lustrous-eyed, 
mutinous  countenance;  Pap  whispered  hoarsely  for 
some  time,  Laurella  replying  at  first  in  a  sort  of  lan 
guid  tolerance,  but  presently  with  little  ejaculations 
of  wonder  and  dismay.  A  step  on  the  stair  which 
he  took  to  be  Johnnie's  put  Himes  to  instant  flight. 

"I've  got  to  go  honey/'  he  breathed  huskily. 
"Cain't  you  say  you  forgive  me  before  I  leave?  I 
know  I  ain't  fitten  fer  the  likes  of  you;  but  when  I 
come  back  from  this  here  raid  I'm  a-goin'  to  take  some 
money  out  of  the  bank  and  git  you  whatever  you  want. 
L6ok-a-here;  see  what  I've  done,"  and  he  showed  a 
little  book  in  his  hand,  and  what  he  had  written  in  it. 

"Oh  —  I  forgive  you,  if  that's  any  account  to  you," 
returned  Laurella  with  kindly  contempt.  "I  never. 


292   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

noticed  that  forgiving  things  undid  the  harm  any; 
but — yes — oh,  of  course  I  forgive  you.  Go  along; 
I'm  tired  now.  Don't  bother  me  any  more,  Gid; 
I  want  to  sleep." 

The  old  man  thrust  the  treasured  bankbook  under 
Laurella's  pillow,  and  hurried  away.  Downstairs  in 
the  dining  room  Johnnie  was  eating  her  breakfast. 

''Johnnie,"  said  Mavity  Bence,  keeping  behind  the 
girl's  chair  as  she  served  the  meal  to  her  at  the  end  of 
the  long  table,  "I  ain't  never  done  you  a  meanness  yet, 
have  I  ?  And  you  know  I've  got  all  the  good  will  in 
the  world  toward  you  —  now  don't  you  ?" 

"Why,  of  course,  Aunt  Mavity,"  returned  Johnnie 
wonderingly,  trying  to  get  sight  of  the  older  woman's 
face. 

Mrs.  Bence  took  a  plate  and  hurried  out  for  more 
biscuits.  She  came  back  with  some  resolution  plainly 
renewed  in  her  mind. 

''Johnnie,"  she  began  once  more,  "there's  something 
I've  got  to  tell  you.     Your  Uncle  Pros  has  got  away 
from  'em  up  at  the  hospital,  and  to  the  hills,  and  —  and 
-  I  have  obliged  to  tell  you." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  returned  Johnnie  passively.  "They 
sent  me  word  last  night.  I'm  sorry,  but  I  can't  do 
anything  about  it.  Maybe  he  won't  come  to  any  harm 
out  that  way.  I  can't  imagine  Uncle  Pros  hurting 
anybody.  Perhaps  it  will  do  him  good." 

"Hit  wasn't  about  your  Uncle  Pros  that  I  was 
meaning.  At  least  not  about  his  gettin'  away  from  the 
hospital,"  amended  Mavity.  "It  was  about  the  day 


THE   SEARCH  293 

he  got  hurt  here.  I  —  I  always  aimed  to  tell  you. 
I  know  I  ort  to  have  done  it.  I  was  always  a-goin' 
to,  and  then  —  Pap  —  he  - 

She  broke  off  and  stood  silent  so  long  that  Johnnie 
turned  and  looked  at  her. 

"Surely  you  aren't  afraid  of  me,  Aunt  Mavity," 
she  said  finally. 

"No,"  said  Mavity  Bence  in  a  low  voice,  "but  I'm 
scared  of  —  the  others." 

The  girl  stared  at  her  curiously. 

"  Johnnie,"  burst  out  the  woman  for  the  third  time, 
"yo'  Uncle  Pros  found  his  silver  mine!  Oh,  yes,  he 
did;  and  Pap's  got  his  pieces  of  ore  upstairs  in  a  ban- 
danner;  and  him  and  Shade  Buckheath  aims  to  git  it 
away  from  you-all  and  —  oh,  I  don't  know  what!" 

There  fell  a  long  silence.  At  last  Johnnie's  voice 
broke  it,  asking  very  low: 

"Did  they  —  how  was  Uncle  Pros  hurt?" 

"Neither  of  'em  touched  him,"  Mavity  hastened 
to  assure  her.  "He  heard  'em  name  it  how  they'd  get 
the  mine  from  him  —  or  thought  he  did  —  and  he  come 
out  and  talked  loud,  and  grabbed  for  the  bandanner, 
and  he  missed  it  and  fell  down  the  steps.  He  wasn't 
crazy  when  he  come  to  the  house.  He  was  jest  plumb 
wore  out,  and  his  head  was  hurt.  He  called  it  yo' 
silver  mine.  He  said  he  had  to  put  the  bandanner 
in  yo'  lap  and  tell  you  hit  was  for  you." 

Johnny  got  suddenly  to  her  feet. 

'Thank  you,  Aunt  Mavity,"  she  said  kindly.  "This 
is  what's  been  troubling  you,  is  it  ?  Don't  worry  any 


294   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

more,  I'll  see  about  this,  somehow.  I  must  go  back 
to  Mother  now." 

Laurella  had  said  to  Pap  Himes  that  she  wanted  to 
sleep,  and  indeed  her  eyes  were  closed  when  Johnnie 
entered  the  room;  but  beneath  the  shadow  of  the 
sweeping  lashes  burned  such  spots  of  crimson  that  her 
nurse  was  alarmed. 

"  What  was  Pap  Himes  saying  to  you  to  get  you  so 
excited  ?  "  she  asked  anxiously. 

:<  Johnnie,  come  here.  Sit  down  on  the  edge  of  the 
bed  and  listen  to  me,"  demanded  Laurella  feverishly. 
She  laid  hold  of  her  daughter's  arm,  and  half  pulled 
herself  up  by  it,  staring  into  Johnnie's  face  as  she  talked ; 
and  out  tumbled  the  whole  story  of  Gray  Stoddard's 
disappearance. 

As  full  understanding  of  what  her  mother  said  came 
home  to  Johnnie,  her  eyes  dilated  in  her  pale  face. 
She  sank  to  her  knees  beside  the  bed. 

"Lost!"  she  echoed.  "Lost  —  gone!  Hasn't  been 
seen  since  Friday  morning  —  Friday  morning  before 
sunup!  Friday,  Saturday,  Sunday.  My  God,  Mother 
—  it's  three  days  and  three  nights!" 

"Yes,  honey,  it's  three  days  and  three  nights," 
assented  Laurella  fearfully.  "Gid  says  he's  going  up 
in  the  mountains  with  a  lot  of  others  to  search.  He 
says  some  thinks  the  moonshiners  have  taken  him 
in  mistake  for  a  revenuer;  and  some  believe  it  was 
robbery  —  for  his  watch  and  money;  and  Mr.  Hard- 
wick  is  blaming  it  on  the  Groner  crowd  that  raised 
up  such  a  fuss  when  Lura  Dawson  died  in  the  hospital 


"  LOST  —  GONE  ! 


MY  GOD,  MOTHER  —  IT'S    THREE  DAYS  AND 
THREE  NIGHTS  ! " 


THE   SEARCH  295 

here.  Gid  says  they've  searched  every  ridge  and 
valley  this  side  of  Big  Unaka.  He  —  Johnnie,  he 
says  he  believes  Mr.  Stoddard  suicided." 

"Where  is  Shade  Buckheath?"  whispered  Johnnie. 

"Shade's  been  out  with  mighty  nigh  every  crowd 
that  went,"  Laurella  told  her.  "  Mr.  Hardwick  pays 
them  wages,  just  the  same  as  if  they  were  in  the  mill. 
Shade's  going  with  Gid  this  morning,  in  Mr.  Stoddard's 
automobile." 

"Are  they  gone  —  oh,  are  they  gone?"  Johnnie 
sprang  to  her  feet  in  dismay,  and  stood  staring  a 
moment.  Then  swiftly  she  bent  once  more  over  the 
little  woman  in  the  bed.  "  Mother,"  she  said  before 
Laurella  could  speak  or  answer  her,  "Aunt  Mavity 
can  wait  on  you  and  Deanie  for  a  little  while  —  with 
what  help  Lissy  will  give  you  —  can't  she,  honey  ? 
And  Mandy  was  coming  downstairs  to  her  breakfast 
this  morning  —  she's  able  to  be  afoot  now  —  and  I 
know  she'll  be  wanting  to  help  tend  on  Deanie.  You 
could  get  along  for  a  spell  without  me  —  don't  you 
think  you  could  ?  Honey,"  she  spoke  desperately.  "  I've 
just  got  to  find  Shade  Buckheath  —  I  must  see  him." 

"Sure,  we'll  get  along  all  right,  Johnnie,"  Laurella 
put  in  eagerly.  She  tugged  at  a  corner  of  the  pillow, 
fumbled  thereunder  with  her  little  brown  hand,  and 
dragging  out  Pap  Himes's  bankbook,  showed  it  to 
her  daughter,  opening  at  that  front  page  where  Pap's 
clumsy  characters  made  Laurella  Himes  free  of  all  his 
savings.  "You  go  right  along,  Johnnie,  and  see  cain't 
you  help  about  Mr.  Stoddard.  Looks  like  I  cain't 


296      THE   POWER  AND  THE   GLORY 

bear  to  think.  .  .  the  pore  boy  .  .  .  you  go 
on  —  me  and  Deanie'll  be  all  right  till  you  get  back." 

Johnnie  stooped  and  kissed  the  cheek  with  its  fever 
ish  flush. 

"Good-bye,  Mommie,"  she  whispered  hurriedly. 
"Don't  worry  about  me.  I'll  be  back — .  Well,  don't 
worry.  Good-bye."  She  snatched  a  coat  and  hat, 
and,  going  out,  closed  the  door  quietly  behind  her. 

She  stepped  out  into  the  dancing  sunlight  of  an  early 
spring  morning.  The  leafless  vine  on  Mavity  Bence's 
porch  rattled  dry  stems  against  the  lattice  work  in  a 
gay  March  wind.  Taking  counsel  with  herself  for 
a  moment,  she  started  swiftly  down  the  street  in  the 
direction  of  the  mills.  In  the  office  they  told  her  that 
Mr.  Hardwick  had  gone  to  Nashville  to  see  about  getting 
bloodhounds;  MacPherson  was  following  his  own 
plan  of  search  in  Watauga.  She  was  permitted  to  go 
down  into  the  mechanical  department  and  ask  the  head 
of  it  about  Shade  Buckheath. 

"No,  he  ain't  here,"  Mr.  Ramsey  told  her  promptly. 
"We're  running  so  short-handed  that  I  don't  know 
how  to  get  along;  and  if  I  try  to  get  an  extra  man,  I 
find  he's  out  with  the  searchers.  I  sent  up  for  Himes 
yesterday,  but  him  and  Buckheath  was  to  go  together 
to-day,  taking  Mr.  Stoddard's  car,  so  as  to  get  further 
up  into  the  Unakas." 

Johnnie  felt  as  though  the  blood  receded  from  her 
face  and  gathered  all  about  a  heart  which  beat  to  suffo 
cation.  For  a  wild  moment  she  had  an  impulse  to 
denounce  Buckheath  and  her  stepfather.  But  almost 


THE   SEARCH  297 

instantly  she  realized  that  she  would  weaken  her  cause 
and  lose  all  chance  of  assistance  by  doing  so.  Her 
standing  in  the  mill  was  excellent,  and  as  she  ran  up  the 
stairs  she  was  going  over  in  her  mind  the  persons  to 
whom  she  might  take  her  story.  She  found  no  one  from 
whom  she  dared  expect  credence  and  help.  Out  in 
the  street  again  she  caught  sight  of  Charlie  Conroy, 
and  her  thoughts  were  turned  by  a  natural  association 
of  ideas  to  Lydia  Sessions.  That  was  it!  Why  had 
it  not  occurred  to  her  before  ?  She  hurried  up  the  long 
hill  to  the  Hardwick  home  and,  trying  first  the  bell 
at  the  front,  where  she  got  no  reply,  skirted  the  house 
and  rapped  long  and  loudly  at  the  side  door. 

Harriet  Hardwick,  when  things  began  to  wear  a 
tragic  complexion,  had  promptly  packed  her  wardrobe 
and  her  children  and  flitted  to  Watauga.  This  hegira 
was  undertaken  mainly  to  get  her  sister  away  from  the 
scene  of  Gray  Stoddard's  disappearance;  yet  when 
the  move  came  to  be  made,  Miss  Sessions  refused  to 
accompany  her  sister. 

"I  can't  go,"  she  repeated  fiercely.  "I'll  stay  here 
and  keep  house  for  Jerome.  Then  if  there  comes 
any  news,  I'll  be  where  —  oh,  don't  look  at  me  that 
way.  I  wish  you'd  go  on  and  let  me  alone.  Yes  - 
yes  —  yes  —  it  is  better  for  you  to  go  to  Watauga  and 
leave  me  here." 

Ever  since  her  brother-in-law  opened  the  door  of 
the  sitting  room  and  announced  to  the  family  Gray 
Stoddard's  disappearance,  Lydia  Sessions  had  been, 
as  it  were,  a  woman  at  war  with  herself.  Her  first 


298      THE   POWER  AND  THE   GLORY 

impulse  was  of  decorum  —  to  jerk  her  skirts  about  her 
in  seemly  fashion  and  be  certain  that  no  smirch  adhered 
to  them.  Then  she  began  to  wonder  if  she  could  find 
Shade  Buckheath,  and  discover  from  him  the  truth  of 
the  matter.  Whenever  she  would  have  made  a  move 
ment  toward  this,  she  winced  away  from  what  she 
knew  he  would  say  to  her.  She  flinched  even  from 
finding  out  that  her  fears  were  well  grounded.  As 
matters  began  to  wear  a  more  serious  face,  she  debated 
now  and  again  telling  her  brother-in-law  of  her  sus 
picions  that  Buckheath  had  a  grudge  against  Stoddard. 
But  if  she  said  this,  how  account  for  the  knowledge  ? 
How  explain  to  Jerome  why  she  had  denied  seeing 
Stoddard  Friday  morning  ?  Jerome  was  so  terribly 
practical  —  he  would  ask  such  searching  questions. 

Back  of  it  all  there  was  truly  much  remorse,  and 
terrible  anxiety  for  Stoddard  himself;  but  this  was 
continually  swallowed  up  in  her  concern  for  her  own 
welfare,  her  own  good  name.  Always,  after  she  had 
agonized  so  much,  there  would  come  with  a  revulsion  - 
a  gust  of  anger.  Stoddard  had  never  cared  for  her,  he 
had  been  cruel  in  his  attitude  of  kindness.  Let  him 
take  what  followed. 

Cottonville  was  a  town  distraught,  and  the  Hardwick 
servants  had  seized  the  occasion  to  run  out  for  a  bit  of 
delectable  gossip  in  which  the  least  of  the  horrors 
included  Gray  Stoddard's  murdered  and  mutilated 
body  washed  down  in  some  mountain  stream  to  the 
sight  of  his  friends. 

Johnnie  was  too  urgent  to  long  delay.     Getting  no 


THE   SEARCH  299 

answer  at  the  side  door,  she  pushed  it  open  and  ventured 
through  silent  room  after  room  until  she  came  to  the 
stairway,  and  so  on  up  to  Miss  Sessions's  bedroom 
door.  She  had  been  there  before,  and  fearing  to  alarm 
by  knocking,  she  finally  called  out  in  what  she  tried  to 
make  a  normal,  reassuring  tone. 

"It's  only  me  --  Johnnie  Consadine  —  Miss  Lydia." 

The  answer  was  a  hasty,  muffled  outcry.  Somebody 
who  had  been  kneeling  by  the  bed  on  the  further  side 
of  the  room  sprang  up  and  came  forward,  showing  a 
face  so  disfigured  by  tears  and  anxiety,  by  loss  of  sleep 
and  lack  of  food,  as  to  be  scarcely  recognizable.  That 
ravaged  visage  told  plainly  the  battle-ground  that 
Lydia  Sessions's  narrow  soul  had  become  in  these 
dreadful  days.  She  knew  now  that  she  had  set  Shade 
Buckheath  to  quarrel  with  Gray  Stoddard  —  and 
Gray  had  never  been  seen  since  the  hour  she  sent  the 
dangerous,  unscrupulous  man  after  him  to  that  quarrel. 
With  this  knowledge  wrestled  and  fought  the  instinct 
we  strive  to  develop  in  our  girl  children,  the  fear  we 
brand  shamefully  into  their  natures  —  her  name  must 
not  be  connected  with  such  an  affair  —  she  must  not  be 
"talked  about." 

"Have  they  found  him?"  Lydia  gasped.  "Is  he 
alive?" 

Johnnie,  generous  soul,  even  in  the  intense  pre 
occupation  of  her  own  pain,  could  pity  the  woman  who 
looked  and  spoke  thus. 

"No,"  she  answered,  "they  haven't  found  him - 
and  some  that  are  looking  for  him  never  will  find  him. 


300  THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

Oh,  Miss  Lydia,  I  want  you  to  help  me  make  them  send 
somebody  that  we  can  trust  up  the  Gap  road,  and  on 
to  the  Unakas." 

Miss  Sessions  flinched  plainly. 

"What  do  you  know  about  it?"  she  inquired  in  a 
voice  which  shook. 

Still  staring  at  Johnnie,  she  moved  back  toward  her 
bedroom  door.  "Why  should  you  mention  the  Gap 
road  ?  What  makes  you  think  he  went  up  in  the 
Unakas?" 

"I  —  don't  know  that  he  went  there,"  hesitated 
Johnnie.  "  But  I  do  know  who  you've  got  to  find  before 
you  can  find  him.  Oh,  get  somebody  to  go  with  me 
and  help  me,  before  it's  too  late.  I  -  "  she  hesitated 

"I  thought  maybe  we  could  get  your  brother 
Hartley's  car.  I  could  run  it  —  I  could  run  a  car." 

The  bitterness  that  had  racked  Lydia  Sessions's 
heart  for  more  than  forty-eight  hours  culminated. 
She  had  been  instrumental  in  putting  Gray  Stoddard 
in  mortal  danger  —  and  now  if  he  was  to  be  helped, 
assistance  would  come  through  Johnnie  Consadine! 
It  was  more  than  she  could  bear. 

"I  don't  believe  it!"  she  gasped.  "You  know  who 
to  find!  You're  just  getting  up  this  story  to  be  noticed. 
You're  always  doing  things  to  attract  attention  to 
yourself.  You  want  to  go  riding  around  in  an  auto 
mobile  and  —  and  —  Mr.  Stoddard  has  probably  gone 
in  to  Watauga  and  taken  the  midnight  train  for  Boston. 
This  looking  around  in  the  mountains  is  folly.  Who 
would  want  to  harm  him  in  the  mountains  ?" 


THE  SEARCH  301 

For  a  moment  Johnnie  stood,  thwarted  and  non 
plussed.  The  insults  directed  toward  herself  made 
almost  no  impression  on  her,  strangely  as  they  came 
from  Lydia  Sessions's  lips.  She  was  too  intent  on  her 
own  purpose  to  care  greatly. 

"Shade  Buckheath  -  '  she  began  cautiously,  in 
tending  only  to  state  that  Shade  had  taken  Stoddard's 
car;  but  Lydia  Sessions  drew  back  with  a  scream. 

"It's  a  lie!"  she  cried.  "There  isn't  a  word  of  truth 
in  what  you  say,  John  Consadine.  Oh,  you're  the 
plague  of  my  life — you  have  been  from  the  first! 
You  follow  me  about  and  torment  me.  Shade  Buck- 
heath  had  nothing  to  do  with  Gray  Stoddard's  disap 
pearance,  I  tell  you.  Nothing  —  nothing  —  nothing!" 

She  thrust  forward  her  face  and  sent  forth  the  words 
with  incredible  vehemence.  But  her  tirade  kindled 
in  Johnnie  no  heat  of  personal  anger.  She  stood 
looking  intently  at  the  frantic  woman  before  her. 
Slowly  a  light  of  comprehension  dawned  in  her  eyes. 

"Shade  Buckheath  had  everything  to  do  with  Gray 
Stoddard's  disappearance.  You  know  it  —  that's  what 
ails  you  now.  You  —  you  must  have  been  there  when 
they  quarrelled!" 

"They  didn't  quarrel  —  they  didn't!"  protested 
Miss  Lydia,  with  a  yet  more  hysteric  emphasis.  ''  They 
didn't  even  speak  to  each  other.  Mr.  Stoddard  said 
'Good  morning'  to  me,  and  rode  right  past." 

Johnnie  leant  forward  and,  with  a  sudden  sweeping 
movement,  caught  the  other  woman  by  the  wrist, 
looking  deep  into  her  eyes. 


302   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

"Lydia,"  she  said  accusingly,  and  neither  of  them 
noticed  the  freedom  of  the  address,  "you  didn't  tell 
the  truth  when  you  said  you  hadn't  seen  Gray 
since  Friday  night.  You  saw  him  Friday  morning  - 
you  —  and  —  Shade  —  Buckheatb!  You  have  both 
lied  about  it  —  God  knows  why.  Now,  Shade  and 
my  stepfather  have  taken  poor  Gray's  car  and  gone 
up  into  the  mountains.  What  do  you  think  they  went 
for?" 

The  blazing  young  eyes  were  on  Miss  Sessions's 
tortured  countenance. 

"Oh,  don't  let  those  men  get  at  Gray.  They'll 
murder  him!"  sobbed  the  older  woman,  sinking  once 
more  to  her  knees.  '*  Johnnie  —  I've  always  been 
good  to  you,  haven't  I  ?  You  go  and  tell  them  that  - 
say  that  Shade  Buckheath  —  that  somebody  ought 
to " 

She  broke  off  abruptly,  and  sprang  up  like  a  suddenly 
goaded  creature. 

"No,  I  won't!"  she  cried  out.  "You  needn't  ask 
it  of  me.  I  will  not  tell  about  seeing  Mr.  Stoddard 
Friday  morning.  I  promised  not  to,  and  it  can't 
do  any  good,  anyhow.  If  you  set  them  at  me,  I'll 
deny  it  and  tell  them  you  made  up  the  story.  I  will  - 
I  will  — I  will!" 

And  she  ran  into  her  room  once  more,  and  threw 
herself  down  beside  the  bed.  Johnnie  turned 
contemptuously  and  left  the  woman  babbling  inco- 
herencies  on  her  knees,  evidently  preparing  to  pray 
to  a  God  whose  laws  she  was  determined  to  break. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE    ATLAS    VERTEBRA 

JOHNNIE  hurried  downstairs,  in  a  mental  turmoil 
out  of  which  there  swiftly  formed  itself  the 
resolution  to  go  herself  and  if  possible  over 
take  or  find  Shade  and  her  stepfather.  Word 
must  first  be  sent  to  her  mother.  She  was  glad  to 
remember  that  little  bankbook  under  Laurella's 
pillow.  Mavity  and  Mandy  would  tend  the  invalids 
well,  helped  by  little  Lissy;  and  with  money  available, 
she  was  sure  they  would  be  allowed  to  lack  for  nothing. 
She  crossed  the  hall  swiftly,  meaning  to  go  past  the 
little  grocery  where  they  bought  their  supplies  and 
telephone  Mavity  that  she  might  be  away  for  several 
days.  But  near  the  side  door  she  noted  the  Hardwick 
telephone,  and  hesitated  a  moment.  People  would 
hear  her  down  at  Mayfield's.  Already  she  began  to 
have  a  terror  of  being  watched  or  followed.  Hesita 
tingly  she  took  down  the  receiver  and  asked  for  con 
nection.  At  the  little  tinkle  of  the  bell,  there  was  a 
swift,  light  rush  abore  stairs. 

"Mahala!"  screamed  Miss  Sessions's  voice  over  the 
banisters,  thinking  the  maid  was  below  stairs;  "answer 
that  telephone/'  She  heard  Johnnie  move,  and 
added,  "Tell  everybody  that  I  can't  be  seen.  If 

303 


304   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

it's  anything  about  Mr.  Stoddard,  say  that  I'm  sick  - 
utterly  prostrated — and  can't  be  talked  to."  She 
turned  from  the  stairway,  ran  back  into  her  own 
room  and  shut  and  locked  the  door.  And  at  that 
moment  Johnnie  heard  Mavity  Bence's  voice  replying 
to  her. 

"Aunt  Mavity,"  she  began,  "this  is  Johnnie.  I'm 
up  at  Mr.  Hardwick's  now.  Uncle  Pros  is  out  in  the 
mountains,  and  I'm  going  to  look  for  him.  I'd  rather 
not  have  anybody  know  I'm  gone;  do  you  under 
stand  that  ?  Try  to  keep  it  from  the  boarders  and 
the  children.  You  and  Mandy  are  the  only  ones 
that  would  have  to  know." 

"Yes,  honey,  yes,  Johnnie,"  came  the  eager, 
humble  reply.  "I'll  do  just  like  you  say.  Shan't 
nobody  find  out  from  me.  Johnnie  -  '  there  was  a 
pause-  " Johnnie,  Pap  and  Shade  didn't  get  off  as 
soon  as  they  expected.  Something  was  the  matter 
with  the  machine,  I  believe.  They  ain't  been  gone 
to  exceed  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  I  --  I  thought  maybe 
you'd  like  to  know." 

" Thank  you,  Aunt  Mavity,"  said  Johnnie.  "Yes, 
I'm  glad  you  told  me."  She  understood  what  a 
struggle  the  kind  soul  had  had  with  her  weakness  and 
timidity  ere,  for  loyalty's  sake,  she  was  able  to  make 
the  disclosure.  "I  may  not  be  back  for  two  or  three 
days.  Don't  worry  about  me.  I'll  be  all  right. 
Mother's  got  money.  You  buy  what  she  and  Deanie 
need,  and  don't  work  too  hard.  Good-bye." 

She  hung  up  the  receiver,  went  out  the  side  door 


THE  ATLAS  VERTEBRA  305 

and,  reaching  the  main  street,  struck  straight  for  the 
Gap,  holding  the  big  road  for  the  Unakas.  To  her 
left  was  the  white  highway  that  ran  along  above  the 
valley,  and  that  Palace  of  Pleasure  which  had  seemed 
a  wonder  and  a  mystery  to  her  one  year  gone.  To-day 
she  gave  no  thought  to  the  sight  of  river  and  valley 
and  town,  except  to  look  back  once  at  the  roofs  and 
reflect  that,  among  all  the  people  housed  there  in  sight 
of  her,  there  were  surely  those  who  knew  the  secret 
of  Gray  Stoddard's  disappearance — who  could  tell 
her  if  they  would  where  to  search  for  him.  Somehow, 
the  thought  made  her  feel  very  small  and  alone  and 
unfriended.  With  its  discouragement  came  that 
dogged  persistence  that  was  characteristic  of  the  girl. 
She  set  her  trembling  lip  and  went  over  her  plans 
resolutely,  methodically.  Deanie  and  Laurella  were 
safe  to  be  well  looked  after  in  her  absence.  Mavity 
Bence  and  Mandy  would  care  for  them  tenderly. 
And  there  was  the  bankbook.  If  Johnnie  knew  her 
mother,  the  household  back  there  would  not  lack, 
either  for  assistance  or  material  matters. 

And  now  the  present  enterprise  began  to  shape 
itself  in  her  mind.  A  practical  creature,  she  depended^ 
from  the  first  on  getting  a  lift  from  time  to  time.  Yet 
Johnnie  knew  better  than  another  the  vast,  silent, 
secret  network  of  hate  that  draws  about  the  victim 
in  a  mountain  vendetta.  If  the  spirit  of  feud  was 
aroused  against  the  mill  owners,  if  the  Groners  and 
Dawsons  had  been  able  to  enlist  their  kin  and  clan, 
she  was  well  aware  that  the  man  or  woman  who 


3o6   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

gave  her  smiling  information  as  to  ways  and  means, 
might,  the  hour  before,  have  looked  on  Gray  Stoddard 
lying  dead,  or  sat  in  the  council  which  planned  to  kill 
him.  Thus  she  walked  warily,  and  dared  ask  from 
none  directions  or  help.  She  was  not  yet  in  her  own 
region,  these  lower  ridges  lying  between  two  lines 
of  railway,  which,  from  the  mountaineer's  point  of 
view,  contaminated  them  and  gave  them  a  tincture 
of  the  valley  and  the  Settlement. 

Noon  came  and  passed.  She  was  very  weary. 
Factory  life  had  told  on  her  physically,  and  the  recent 
distress  of  mind  added  its  devitalizing  influence. 
There  was  a  desperate  flagging  of  the  muscles  weak 
ened  by  disuse  and  an  unhealthy  indoor  life. 

"I  wonder  can  I  ever  make  it?"  she  questioned 
herself.  Then  swiftly,  "I've  got  to  —  I've  got  to." 

Her  eye  roved  toward  a  cabin  on  the  slope  above. 
There  lived  a  man  by  the  name  of  Straley,  but  he  was 
a  cousin  to  Lura  Dawson,  the  girl  who  had  died  in 
the  hospital.  Johnnie  knew  him  to  be  one  of  the 
bitterest  enemies  of  the  Cottonville  mill  owners,  and 
realized  that  he  would  be  the  last  one  to  whom  she 
should  apply.  Mutely,  doggedly,  she  pressed  on, 
and  rounding  a  bend  in  a  long,  lonely  stretch  of  road, 
saw  before  her  the  tall,  lithe  form  of  a  man,  trousers 
tucked  into  boots,  a  tall  staff  in  hand,  making  swift 
progress  up  the  road.  The  sound  of  feet  evidently 
arrested  the  attention  of  the  wayfarer.  He  turned 
and  waited  for  her  to  come  up. 

The  figure  was  so  congruous  with  its  surroundings 


THE  ATLAS  VERTEBRA  307 

that  she  saw  with  surprise  a  face  totally  strange  to  her. 
The  turned-down  collar  of  the  rumpled  shirt  was 
unbuttoned  at  a  brown  throat;  the  face  above  seemed 
to  her  eyes  neither  old  nor  young,  though  the  light, 
springing  gait  when  he  walked,  the  supple,  easeful 
attitude  now  that  he  rested,  one  hand  flung  high  on 
the  curious  tall  staff,  were  those  of  a  youth;  the  eyes 
of  a  warm,  laughing  hazel  had  the  direct  fearlessness 
of  a  child,  and  a  slouch  hat  carried  in  the  hand  showed 
a  fair  crop  of  slightly  grizzled,  curling  hair. 

A  stranger  —  at  first  the  thought  frightened,  and 
then  attracted  her.  This  man  looked  not  unlike 
Johnnie's  own  people,  and  there  was  something  in  his 
face  that  led  her  to  entertain  the  idea  of  appealing 
to  him  for  help.  He  settled  the  question  of  whether 
or  no  she  should  enter  into  conversation,  by  accosting 
her  at  once  brusquely  and  genially. 

"Mornin',  sis'.  You  look  tired,"  he  said.  "You 
ought  to  have  a  stick,  like  me.  Hold  on  —  I'll  cut 
you  one." 

Before  the  girl  could  respond  beyond  an  answering 
smile  and  "good  mormng,"  the  new  friend  had  put 
his  own  alpenstock  into  her  hands  and  gone  to  the 
roadside,  where,  with  unerring  judgment,  he  selected 
.a  long,  straight,  tapering  shoot  of  ash,  and  hewed 
it  deftly  with  a  monster  jack-knife  drawn  from  his 
trousers  pocket. 

"  There  —  try  that,"  he  said  as  he  returned,  trim 
ming  off  the  last  of  the  leaves  and  branches. 

Johnnie  took  the  staff  with  her  sweet  smile  of  thanks. 


3o8   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

For  a  few  moments  the  two  walked  on  silently  side 
by  side,  she  desperately  absorbed  in  her  anxi 
eties,  her  companion  apparently  returning  to  some 
world  apart  in  his  own  mind.  Suddenly: 

"Can  I  get  to  the  railroad  down  this  side?"  the 
man  asked  her  in  that  odd,  incidental  voice  of  his 
which  suggested  that  what  he  said  was  merely  a  small 
portion  of  what  he  thought. 

"Why — yes,  I  reckon  so,"  hesitated  Johnnie. 
"It's  a  pretty  far  way,  and  there  don't  many  folks 
travel  on  it.  It's  an  old  Indian  trail;  a  heap  of  our 
roads  here  are  that;  but  it'll  take  you  right  to  the 
railroad  —  the  W.  and  A." 

Her  companion  chuckled,  seemingly  with  some 
inner  satisfaction. 

"Yes,  that's  just  what  I  supposed.  I  soldiered  all 
over  this  country,  and  I  thought  it  was  about  as  pretty 
scenery  as  God  ever  made.  I  promised  myself  then 
that  if  I  ever  came  back  into  this  part  of  the  world, 
I'd  do  some  tramping  through  here.  They're  going 
to  have  a  great  big  banquet  at  Atlanta,  and  they  had 
me  caged  up  taking  me  down  there  to  make  a  speech. 
I  gave  them  the  slip  at  Watauga.  I  knew  I'd  strike 
the  railroad  if  I  footed  it  through  the  mountains  here." 

Johnnie  examined  her  companion  with  attention. 
Would  it  do  to  ask  him  if  he  had  seen  an  automobile 
on  the  road  —  a  dark  green  car  ?  Dare  she  make 
inquiry  as  to  whether  he  had  heard  of  Gray  Stod- 
dard's  disappearance,  or  met  any  of  the  searchers  ? 
She  decided  on  a  conservative  course. 


THE  ATLAS  VERTEBRA  309 

"I  wish  I  had  time  to  set  you  in  the  right  road," 
she  hesitated;  "but  my  poor  old  uncle  is  out  here 
somewhere  among  these  ridges  and  ravines;  he's 
not  in  his  right  mind,  and  I've  got  to  find  him  if  I 
can." 

"Crazy,  do  you  mean?"  asked  her  companion, 
with  a  quick  yet  easy,  smiling  attention.  "I'd  like 
to  see  him,  if  he's  crazy.  I  take  a  great  interest  in 
crazy  folks.  Some  of  'em  have  a  lot  of  sense  left." 

Johnnie  nodded. 

"He  doesn't  know  any  of  us,"  she  said  pitifully. 
'They've  had  him  in  the  hospital  three  months,  trying 
to  do  something  for  him;  but  the  doctors  say  he'll 
never  be  well." 

"That's  right  hopeful,"  observed  the  man,  with 
a  plainly  intentional,  dry  ludicrousness.  "I  always 
think  there's  some  chance  when  the  doctors  give  'em 
up  —  and  begin  to  let  'em  alone.  How  was  he  hurt, 
sis'?" 

Johnnie  did  not  pause  to  reflect  that  she  had  not 
said  Uncle  Pros  was  hurt  at  all.  For  some  reason 
which  she  would  herself  have  been  at  a  loss  to  explain, 
she  hastened  to  detail  to  this  chance-met  stranger 
the  exact  appearance  and  nature  of  Pros  Passmore's 
injuries,  her  listener  nodding  his  head  at  this  or  that 
point;  making  some  comment  or  inquiry  at  another. 

"The  doctors  say  that  they  would  suppose  it  was  a 
fractured  skull,  or  concussion  of  the  brain,  or  something 
like  that;  but  they've  examined  him  and  there  is 
nothing  to  see  on  the  outside;  and  they  trephined 


3io      THE   POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

and  it  didn't  do  any  good;  so  they  just  let  him  stay 
about  the  hospital." 

"No,"  said  her  new  friend  softly,  almost  absently, 
"it  didn't  do  any  good  to  trephine — but  it  might 
have  done  a  lot  of  harm.  I'd  like  to  see  the  back  of 
your  uncle's  neck.  I  ain't  in  any  hurry  to  get  to  that 
banquet  at  Atlanta  —  a  man  can  always  overeat 
and  make  himself  sick,  without  going  so  far  to  do  it." 

So,  like  an  idle  schoolboy,  the  unknown  forsook 
his  own  course,  turning  from  the  road  when  Johnnie 
turned,  and  went  with  her  up  the  steep,  rocky  gulch 
where  the  door  of  a  deserted  cabin  flung  to  and  fro 
on  its  hinges.  At  sight  of  the  smokeless  chimney, 
the  gaping  doorway  and  empty,  inhospitable  interior, 
Johnnie  looked  blank. 

"Have  you  got  anything  to  eat?"  she  asked  her 
companion,  hesitatingly.  "I  came  off  in  such  a  hurry 
that  I  forgot  all  about  it.  Some  people  that  I  know 
used  to  live  in  that  cabin,  and  I  hoped  to  get  my  dinner 
there  and  ask  after  my  uncle;  but  I  see  they  have 
moved." 

"Sit  right  down  here,"  said  the  stranger,  indicating 
the  broad  door-stone,  around  which  the  grass  grew 
tall.  "We'll  soon  make  that  all  right."  He  sought 
in  the  pockets  of  the  coat  he  carried  slung  across  his 
shoulder  and  brought  out  a  packet  of  food.  "I  laid 
in  some  fuel  when  I  thought  I  might  get  the  chance 
to  run  my  own  engine  across  the  mountains,"  he  told 
the  girl,  opening  his  bundle  and  dividing  evenly. 
He  uttered  a  few  musical  words  in  an  unknown  tongue. 


THE  ATLAS  VERTEBRA  311 

" That's  Indian,"  he  commented  carelessly,  without 
looking  at  her.  "It  means  you're  to  eat  your  dinner. 
I  was  with  the  Shawnees  when  I  was  a  boy.  I  learned 
a  lot  of  their  language,  and  I'll  never  forget  it.  They 
taught  me  more  things  than  talk." 

Johnnie  studied  the  man  beside  her  as  they  ate  their 
bit  of  lunch. 

"  My  name  is  Johnnie  Consadine,  sir,"  she  told  him. 
"What  shall  I  call  you?" 

Thus  directly  questioned,  the  unknown  smiled  quiz 
zically,  his  hazel  eyes  crinkling  at  the  corners  and 
overflowing  with  good  humour. 

"Well,  you  might  say  'Pap,'"  he  observed  consider 
ingly.  "Lost  of  boys  and  girls  do  call  me  Pap  — 
more  than  a  thousand  of  'em,  now,  I  guess.  And 
I'm  eighty  —  mighty  near  old  enough  to  have  a  girl 
of  nineteen." 

She  looked  at  him  in  astonishment.  Eighty  years 
old,  as  lithe  as  a  lad,  and  with  a  lad's  clear,  laughing 
eye!  Yet  there  was  a  look  of  power,  of  that  knowl 
edge  which  is  power,  in  his  face  that  made  her  say 
to  him: 

"Do  you  think  that  Uncle  Pros  can  ever  be  cured  — 
have  his  right  mind  back  again,  I  mean  ?  Of  course, 
the  cut  on  his  head  is  healed  up  long  ago." 

"The  cut  on  his  head  didn't  make  him  crazy,"  said 
her  companion,  murmuringly.  "Of  course  it  wasn't 
that,  or  he  would  have  been  raving  when  he  came 
down  from  the  mountain.  Something  happened  to 
him  afterward." 


3i2   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

"Yes,  there  did,"  Johnnie  assented  wonderingly  - 
falteringly.  "I  don't  know  how  you  came  to  guess 
it,  but  the  woman  who  told  me  that  she  was  hiding 
in  the  front  room  when  they  were  quarrelling  and 
saw  Uncle  Pros  fall  down  the  steps,  says  he  landed 
almost  square  on  his  head.  She  thought  at  first  his 
neck  was  broken  —  that  he  was  killed." 

"Uh-huh,"  nodded  the  newcomer.  "You  see  I'm 
a  good  guesser.  I  make  my  living  guessing  things." 
He  flung  her  a  whimsical,  sidelong  glance,  as,  having 
finished  their  lunch,  they  rose  and  moved  on.  "I 
wish  I  had  my  hands  on  the  processes  of  that  atlas 
vertebra,"  he  said. 

"On — on  what?"  inquired  Johnnie  in  a  slightly 
startled  tone. 

"Never  mind,  sis'.  If  we  find  him,  and  I  can  handle 
him,  I'll  know  where  to  look." 

"Nobody  can  touch  him  but  me  when  he  gets  out 
this  way,"  Johnnie  said.  "He  acts  sort  of  scared 
and  sort  of  fierce,  and  just  runs  and  hides  from  people. 
Maybe  if  you'll  tell  me  what  you  want  done,  I  could 
do  it." 

"  Maybe  you  could  —  and  then  again  maybe  you 
couldn't,"  returned  the  other,  with  a  great  show  of 
giving  her  proposition  serious  consideration.  "A 
good  many  folks  think  they  can  do  just  what  I  can  - 
if  I'd  only  tell  'em  how  —  and  sometimes  they  find 
out  they  can't." 

Upon  the  word,  they  topped  a  little  rise,  and  Johnnie 
laid  a  swift,  detaining  hand  upon  her  companion's 


THE  ATLAS  VERTEBRA  313 

arm.  At  the  roadside,  in  a  little  open,  grassy  space 
where  once  evidently  a  cabin  had  stood,  knelt  the 
figure  of  a  gaunt  old  man.  At  first  he  seemed  to  the 
approaching  pair  to  be  gesticulating  and  pointing, 
but  a  moment's  observation  gave  them  the  gleam  of 
a  knife  in  his  hand  —  he  was  playing  mumblety-peg. 
As  they  stood,  drawn  back  near  some  roadside  bushes, 
watching  him,  the  long,  lean  old  arm  went  up,  the 
knife  flashing  against  the  knuckles  of  the  clenched 
fist  and,  with  a  whirl  of  the  wrist,  reversing  swiftly 
in  air,  to  bury  its  blade  in  the  soil  before  the  player. 

"Hi!  Hi!  Hi!  I  th'owed  it.  That  counts  two 
for  me,"  the  cracked  old  falsetto  shrilled  out. 

There  on  that  grassy  plot  that  might  have  been  a 
familiar  dooryard  of  his  early  days,  he  was  playing 
alone,  gone  back  to  childhood.  Johnnie  gazed  and 
her  eyes  swam  with  unshed  tears. 

"You  better  not  go  up  there  —  and  him  with  the 
knife  and  all,"  she  murmured  finally.  The  man 
beside  her  looked  around  into  her  face  and  laughed. 

O 

"I'm  not  very  bad  scared,"  he  said,  advancing 
softly  in  line  with  his  proposed  patient,  motioning 
the  girl  not  to  make  herself  known,  or  startle  her 
uncle. 

Johnnie  stole  after  him,  filled  with  anxiety.  When 
the  newcomer  stood  directly  behind  the  kneeling  man, 
he  bent,  and  his  arms  shot  out  with  surprising  quick 
ness.  The  fingers  of  one  hand  dropped  as  though 
predestined  upon  the  back  of  the  neck,  the  other  caught 
skilfully  beneath  the  chin.  There  was  a  sharp  wrench, 


3 14   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

an  odd  crack,  a  grunt  from  Uncle  Pros,  and  then  the 
mountaineer  sprang  to  his  full  and  very  considerable 
height  with  a  roar.  Whirling  upon  his  adversary, 
he  grappled  him  in  his  long  arms,  hugging  like  a  grizzly, 
and  shouting: 

"You,  Gid  Himes,  wha'r's  my  specimens  ?" 

He  shook  the  stranger  savagely. 

"You  an'  Shade  Buckheath — you  p'ar  o'  scoun 
drels —  give  me  back  my  silver  specimens!  Give 
me  back  my  silver  ore  that  shows  about  the  mine  for 
my  little  gal." 

"Uncle  Pros!  Uncle  Pros!"  screamed  Johnnie, 
rushing  in  and  laying  hold  of  the  man's  arm.  "Don't 
you  know  me  ?  It's  Johnnie.  Don't  hurt  this  gentle 
man." 

The  convulsion  of  rage  subsided  in  the  old  man 
\vith  almost  comical  suddenness.  His  tense  form 
relaxed;  he  stumbled  back,  dropping  his  hands  at 
his  sides  and  staring  about  him,  then  at  Johnnie. 

"Why,  honey,"  he  gasped,  "how  did  you  come 
here?  Whar's  Gid?  Whar's  Shade  Buckheath? 
Lord  A'mighty!  Whar  am  I  at?" 

He  looked  around  him  bewildered,  evidently  expect 
ing  to  see  the  porch  of  Himes's  boarding-house  at 
Cottonville,  the  scattered  bits  of  silver  ore,  and  the 
rifled  bandanna.  He  put  his  hand  to  his  head,  and 
sliding  it  softly  down  to  the  back  of  the  neck  demanded. 

"What's  been  did  to  me?" 

"You  be  right  good  and  quiet  now,  and  mind 
Johnnie,"  the  girl  began,  with  a  pathetic  tremble  in 


THE  ATLAS  VERTEBRA  315 

her  voice,  "and  she'll  take  you  back  to  the  hospital 
where  they're  so  kind  to  you." 

"The  hospital?"  echoed  Pros.  "That  hospital 
down  at  Cottonville  ?  I  never  was  inside  o'  one  o' 
them  places  —  what  do  you  want  me  to  go  thar  for, 
Johnnie  ?  Who  is  this  gentleman  ?  How  came  we-all 
up  here  on  the  road  this-a-way  ?" 

"I  can  quiet  him,"  said  Johnnie  aside  to  her  new 
friend.  "I  always  can  when  he  gets  wild  this  way." 

The  unknown  shook  his  head. 

"You'll  never  have  to  quiet  him  any  more,  unless 
he  breaks  his  neck  again,"  came  the  announcement. 
"Your  uncle  is  as  sane  as  anybody  —  he  just  doesn't 
remember  anything  that  happened  from  the  time  he 
fell  down  the  steps  and  slipped  that  atlas  vertebra  a 
little  bit  on  one  side." 

Again  Pros  Passmore's  fingers  sought  the  back  of 
his  collar. 

"Looks  like  somebody  has  been  tryin'  to  wring 
my  neck,  same  as  a  chicken's,"  he  said  meditatively. 
"But  hit  feels  all  right  now  —  all  right  —  Hoo-ee!" 
he  suddenly  broke  off  to  answer  to  a  far,  faint  hail 
from  the  road  below  them. 

"  Pap !  Hey  —  Pap ! "  The  words  came  up  through 
the  clear  blue  air,  infinitely  diminished  and  attenuated, 
like  some  insect  cry.  The  tall  man  seemed  to  guess 
just  what  the  interruption  would  be.  He  turned  with 
a  pettish  exclamation. 

"Never  could  go  anywhere,  nor  have  any  fun,  but 
what  some  of  the  children  had  to  tag,"  he  protested. 


3i6   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

"Hoo-ee!"     He    cupped    his    hands    and    sent    his 
voice  toward  where  two  men  in  a  vehicle  had  halted 
their  horses  and  were  looking  anxiously  up.     "Well 
-what  is  it?" 

"  Did  you  get  lost  ?  We  hired  a  buggy  and  came 
out  to  find  you,"  the  man  below  called  up. 

"Well,  if  I  get  lost,  I  can  find  myself,"  muttered 
the  newcomer.  He  looked  regretfully  at  the  green 
slopes  about  him;  the  lofty,  impassive  cliffs  where 
Peace  seemed  to  perch,  a  visible  presence;  the  great 
sweeps  of  free  forest;  then  at  Uncle  Pros  and  Johnnie. 
And  they  looked  back  at  him  dubiously. 

"I  expect  I'll  have  to  leave  you,"  he  said  at  last. 
"I  see  what  it  is  those  boys  want;  they're  trying  to 
get  me  back  to  the  railroad  in  time  for  the  six-forty 
train.  I'd  a  heap  rather  stay  here  with  you,  but  - 
he  glanced  from  Johnnie  and  Uncle  Pros  down  to  the 
men  in  their  attitude  of  anxious  waiting  —  "I  reckon 
I'll  have  to  go." 

He  had  made  the  first  descending  step  when  Johnnie's 
hand  on  his  arm  arrested  him.  Uncle  Pros  knew  not 
the  wonder  of  his  own  restoration;  but  to  the  girl 
this  man  before  her  was  something  more  than  mortal. 
Her  eyes  went  from  the  lightly  tossed  hair  on  his  brow 
to  the  mud-spattered  boots  —  was  he  only  a  human 
being  ?  What  was  the  strange  power  he  had  over 
life  and  death  and  the  wandering  soul  of  man  ? 

"What  —  what  —  aren't  you  going  to  tell  me  your 
name,  and  what  you  are,  before  you  go  ?"  she  entreated 
him. 


THE  ATLAS  VERTEBRA  317 

He  laughed  over  his  shoulder,  an  enigmatic  laugh. 

"What  was  it  you  did  to  Uncle  Pros  ?"  Her  voice 
was  vibrant  with  the  awe  and  wonder  of  what  she  had 
seen.  "Was  it  the  laying  on  of  hands  —  as  they  tell 
of  it  in  the  Bible?" 

"Say,  Pap,  hurry  up,  please,"  wailed  up  the  thin, 
impatient  reminder  from  the  road. 

"  Well,  yes  —  I  laid  my  hands  on  him  pretty  strong. 
Didn't  I,  old  man?"  And  the  stranger  glanced  to 
tvhere  Uncle  Pros  stood,  still  occasionally  interrogat 
ing  the  back  of  his  neck  with  fumbling  fingers.  "  Don't 
you  worry,  sis';  a  girl  like  you  will  get  a  miracle  when 
she  has  to  have  it.  If  I  happened  to  be  the  miracle 
you  needed,  why,  that's  good.  As  for  my  profession 
—  my  business  in  life  —  there  was  a  lot  of  folks  that 
used  to  name  me  the  Lightning  Bone-setter.  For 
my  own  part,  I'd  just  as  soon  you'd  call  me  a  human 
engineer.  I  pride  myself  on  knowing  how  the  struct 
ure  of  man  ought  to  work,  and  keeping  the  bearings 
right  and  the  machinery  properly  levelled  up.  Never 
mind.  Next  time  you  have  use  for  a  miracle,  it'll  be 
along  on  schedule  time,  without  you  knowing  what 
name  you  need  to  call  it.  You're  that  sort."  With 
that  curious,  onlooker's  smile  of  his  and  with  a  nod 
of  farewell,  he  plunged  down  the  steep. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

A   CLUE 

THEY  stood  together  watching,  as  the  tall  form 
retreated  around  the  sharp  curves  of  the  red 
clay  road,  or  leaped  lightly  and  hardily 
down  the  cut-offs.  They  waved  back  to  their  late 
companion  when,  climbing  into  the  waiting  buggy 
below,  he  was  finally  driven  away.  Johnnie  turned 
and  looked  long  at  her  uncle  with  swimming  eyes, 
as  he  stood  gazing  where  the  vehicle  had  disappeared. 
She  finally  laid  a  tremulous  hand  on  his  arm. 

"Oh,  Uncle  Pros,"  she  said  falteringly,  "I  can't 
believe  it  yet.  But  you  —  you  do  understand  me  now, 
don't  you  ?  You  know  me.  I'm  Johnnie." 

The  old  man  wheeled  sharply,  and  laughed. 

"See  here,  honey,"  he  said  with  a  tinge  of  irritation 
in  his  tones.  "I  reckon  I've  been  crazy.  From  what 
you  say,  looks  like  I  haven't  known  my  best  friends 
for  a  long  time.  But  I  have  got  as  much  sense  now  as  I 
ever  had,  and  I  don't  remember  anything  about  that 
other  business.  Last  thing  I  know  of  was  fussin' 
with  Gid  Himes  and  Shade  Buckheath  about  my  silver 
ore.  By  Joe!  I  bet  they  got  that  stuff  when  I  was 
took  --  Johnnie,  was  I  took  sudden  ?" 

He  seated  himself  on  the  lush,  ancient,  deep-rooted 

318 


A  CLUE  319 

dooryard  grass  where,  a  half-hour  gone,  he  had  knelt, 
a  harmless  lunatic,  playing  mumblety  peg.  Half 
reluctantly  Johnnie  sank  down  beside  him. 

"Yes — yes — yes,  Uncle  Pros,"  the  girl  agreed, 
impatience  mounting  in  her  once  more,  with  the 
assurance  of  her  uncle's  safety  and  well-being.  "They 
did  get  your  specimens;  but  we  can  fix  all  that;  there's 
a  worse  thing  happened  now."  And  swiftly,  suc- 
cintly,  she  told  him  of  the  disappearance  of  Gray 
Stoddard. 

"An5  I  been  out  o'  my  head  six  months  and  better," 
the  old  man  ruminated,  staring  down  at  the  ground. 
"Good  Lord !  it's  funny  to  miss  out  part  o'  your  days 
like  that.  Hit  was  August  —  but  —  O-o-h,  hot  enough 
to  fry  eggs  on  a  shingle,  the  day  I  tramped  down  to 
Cottonville  with  them  specimens;  and  here  it  is"  —he 
threw  up  his  head  and  took  a  comprehensive  survey 
of  the  grove  about  him-  "airly  spring  —  March,  I 
should  say  —  ain't  it,  Johnnie  ?  Yes,"  as  she  nodded. 
"And  who  is  this  here  young  man  that  you  name  that's 
missin',  honey  ?" 

The  girl  glanced  at  him  apprehensively. 

"You  know,  Uncle  Pros,"  she  said  in  a  coaxing  tone. 
"It's  Mr.  Stoddard,  that  used  to  come  to  the  hospital 
to  see  you  so  much  and  play  checkers  with  you  when 
you  got  better.  You  —  why,  Uncle  Pros,  you  liked 
him  more  than  any  one.  He  could  get  you  to  eat 
when  you  wouldn't  take  a  spoonful  from  anybody 
else.  You  must  remember  him  —  you  can't  have 
forgot  Mr.  Stoddard." 


320   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

Pros  thrust  out  a  long,  lean  arm,  and  fingered  the 
sleeve  upon  it. 

"Nor  my  own  clothes,  I  reckon,"  he  assented  with 
a  sort  of  rueful  testiness;  "  but  to  the  best  of  my  knowin' 
and  believin',  I  never  in  my  life  before  saw  this  shirt 
I'm  wearin '-  — every  garment  I've  got  on  is  a  plumb 
stranger  to  me,  Johnnie.  Ye  say  I  played  checkers 
with  him  —  and  - 

"Uncle  Pros,  you  used  to  talk  to  him  by  the  hour, 
when  you  didn't  know  me  at  all,"  Johnnie  told  him 
chokingly.  "I  would  get  afraid  that  you  asked  too 
much  of  him,  but  he'd  leave  anything  to  come  and  sit 
with  you  when  you  were  bad.  He's  got  the  kindest 
heart  of  anybody  I  ever  knew." 

The  old  man's  slow,  thoughtful  gaze  was  raised  a 
moment  to  her  eloquent,  flushed  face,  and  then  dropped 
considerately  to  the  path. 

"An*  ye  tell  me  he's  one  of  the  rich  mill  owners? 
Mr.  Gray  Stoddard  ?  That's  one  name  you've  never 
named  in  your  letters.  What  cause  have  you  to  think 
that  Shade  wished  the  man  ill  ?" 

Slowly  Johnnie's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "Why, 
what  Shade  said  himself.  He  was  - 

"Jealous  of  him,  I  reckon,"  supplied  the  old  man. 

Johnnie    nodded.     It    was    no    time    for    evasions. 

"He  had  no  call  to  be,"  she  repeated.  "Mr.  Stod 
dard  had  no  more  thought  of  me  in  that  way  than  he 
has  of  Deanie.  He'd  be  just  as  kind  to  one  as  the 
other.  But  Shade  brought  his  name  into  it,  and 

O  * 

threatened  him  to  me  in  so  many  words.     He  said  - 


A  CLUE  321 

she  shivered  at  the  recollection  —  "he  said  he'd  fix 
him  —  he'd  get  even  with  him.  So  this  morning 
when  I  found  that  Pap  Himes  and  Shade  had  taken 
Mr.  Stoddard's  car  and  come  on  up  this  way,  it  scared 
me.  Yet  I  couldn't  hardly  go  to  anybody  with  it. 
I  felt  as  though  they  would  say  it  was  just  a  vain, 
foolish  girl  thinking  she'd  stirred  up  trouble  and 
had  the  men  quarrelling  over  her.  I  did  try  to  see 
Mr.  Hardwick  and  Mr.  MacPherson,  and  both  of  them 
were  away.  And  after  that  I  went  to  Mr.  Hardwick's 
house.  The  Miss  Sessions  I  wrote  you  so  much  about 
was  the  only  person  there,  and  she  wouldn't  do  a  thing. 
Then  I  just  walked  up  here  on  my  two  feet.  Uncle 
Pros,  I  was  desperate  enough  for  anything." 

Passmore  had  listened  intently  to  Johnnie's  swift, 
broken,  passionate  sentences. 

"Yes — ye-es,"  he  said,  as  she  made  an  end.  "I 
sorter  begin  to  see.  Hold  on,  honey,  lemme  think 
a  minute." 

He  sat  for  some  time  silent,  with  introverted  gaze, 
Johnnie  with  difficulty  restraining  her  impatience, 
forbearing  to  break  in  upon  his  meditation. 

"Hit  cl'ars  up  to  me  —  sorter  —  as  I  study  on  it," 
he  finally  said.  "Hit's  like  this,  honey;  six  months 
ago  (Lord,  Lord,  six  months!)  when  I  was  walkin' 
down  to  take  that  silver  ore  to  you,  Rudd  Dawson 
stopped  me,  and  nothing  would  do  but  I  must  go 
home  with  him  —  ye  know  he's  got  the  old  Gid  Himes 
place,  in  the  holler  back  of  our  house  —  an'  talk  to 
Will  Venters,  Jess  Groner,  and  Rudd's  brother  Sam. 


322   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

I  didn't  want  to  go  —  my  head  was  plumb  full  of  the 
silver-mine  business,  an'  I  jest  wanted  to  git  down 
to  you  quick  as  I  could.  The  minute  I  said  'Johnnie,' 
Rudd  'lowed  he  wanted  to  warn  me  about  you  down 
in  the  Cottonville  mills.  He  went  over  all  that  stuff 
concerning  Lura,  an'  how  she'd  been  killed  off  in 
the  mill  folk's  hospital  and  her  body  shipped  to  Cin 
cinnati  and  sold.  I  put  in  my  word  that  you  was 
a-doin'  well  in  the  mills;  an'  I  axed  him  what  proof 
he  had  that  the  mill  folks  sold  dead  bodies.  I  'lowed 
that  you  found  the  people  at  Cottonville  mighty  kind, 
and  the  work  good.  He  came  right  back  at  me  sayin' 
that  Lura  had  talked  the  same  way,  and  that  many 
another  had.  Well,  I  finally  went  with  him  to  his 
place  —  the  old  Gid  Himes  house  —  an'  him  an' 
me  an'  Sam  an'  Groner  had  considerable  talk.  They 
told  me  how  they'd  all  been  down  an'  saw  Mr.  Hard- 
wick,  and  how  quare  he  spoke  to  'em.  'Them  mill 
fellers  never  offered  me  a  dollar,  not  a  dollar,'  says 
Rudd.  An'  I  says  to  him,  'Good  Lord,  Dawson! 
Never  offered  you  money?  For  God's  sake!  Did 
you  want  to  be  paid  for  Lura's  body?'  And  he  says, 
'You  know  damn'  well  I  didn't  want  to  be  paid  for 
Lura's  body,  Pros  Passmore,'  he  says.  'But  do  you 
reckon  I'm  a-goin'  to  let  them  mill  men  strut  around 
with  money  they  got  that-a-way  in  their  pockets  ?  No, 
I'll  not.  I'll  see  'em  cold  in  hell  fust,'  he  says  —  them 
Dawsons  is  a  hard  nation  o'  folks,  Johnnie.  I  talked 
to  'em  for  a  spell,  and  tried  to  make  'em  see  that  the 
Hardwick  folks  hadn't  never  sold  no  dead  body  to 


A  CLUE  323 

the  student  doctors;  but  they  was  all  mad  and  out  o' 
theirselves.  I  seed  that  they  wanted  to  get  up  a  feud. 
'Well,'  says  Rudd,  'They've  got  one  of  the  Dawsons, 
and  before  we're  done  we'll  get  one  o'  them/ 

"'Uh-huh,'  I  says,  'you-all  air  a-goin'  to  get  one  o' 
them,  air  ye  ?  Do  you  mean  by  that  that  you're  ready 
to  run  your  heads  into  a  noose  ?' 

'We  don't  have  to  run  our  heads  into  nary  noose,' 
says  Sam  Dawson.  'Shade  Buckheath  is  a-standin' 
in  with  us.  He  knows  all  them  mill  fellers,  an'  their 
ways.  He  aims  to  he'p  us;  an'  we'll  ketch  one  o' 
them  men  out,  and  carry  him  off  up  here  som'ers, 
and  hold  him  till  they  pay  us  what  we  ask.  I  reckon 
the  live  body  of  one  o'  them  chaps  is  worth  a  thousand 
dollars.'  That's  jest  what  he  said,"  concluded  the 
old  man,  turning  toward  her;  "an'  from  what  you  tell 
me,  Johnnie,  I'll  bet  Shade  Buckheath  put  the  words 
in  his  mouth,  if  not  the  notion  in  his  head." 

"Yes,"  whispered  Johnnie  through  white  lips, 
"yes;  but  Shade  Buckheath  isn't  looking  to  make 
money  out  of  it.  He  knows  better  than  to  think  that 
they  could  keep  Mr.  Stoddard  prisoner  a  while,  and 
then  get  money  for  bringing  him  back,  and  never 
have  to  answer  for  it.  He  said  he'd  get  even  —  he'd 
fix  him.  Shade  wants  just  one  thing  —  Oh,  Uncle 
Pros!  Do  you  think  they've  killed  him  ?" 

The  old  man  looked  carefully  away  from  her. 

"This  here  kidnappin'  business,  an  tryin'  to  get 
money  out  of  a  feller's  friends,  most  generally  does 
wind  up  in  a  killin',"  he  said.  "The  folks  gits  to 


324   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

huntin'  pretty  hot,  then  them  chat's  done  the  trick 
gets  scared,  and  —  they  wouldn't  have  no  good  place 
to  put  him,  them  Dawsons,  and  —  and,"  reluctantly, 
"a  dead  body's  easier  hid  than  a  live  man.  Truth 
is,  hit  looks  mighty  bad  for  the  young  feller,  honey  girl. 
To  my  mind  hit's  really  a  question  of  time.  The  sooner 
his  friends  gets  to  him  the  better,  that's  my  belief." 

Johnnie's  pale,  haggard  face  took  on  tragic  lines 
as  she  listened  to  this  plain  putting  of  her  own  worst 
fears.  She  sprang  up  desperately.  Uncle  Pros  rose, 
too. 

"Now,  which  way?"    she  demanded. 

The  old  hunter  stood,  staring  thoughtfully  at  the 
path  before  his  feet,  rubbing  his  jaw  with  long,  supple 
fingers,  the  daze  of  his  recent  experience  yet  upon  him. 

"Well,  I  had  aimed  to  go  right  to  our  old  cabin," 
he  said  finally.  "Hit's  little  more  than  a  mile  to  where 
Dawson  lives,  in  Gid's  old  place  in  Blue  Spring  Holler. 
They  all  think  I'm  crazy,  an'  they  won't  interfere 
with  me  — -  not  till  they  find  out  different.  Your 
mother;  she'll  give  us  good  help,  once  we  git  to  her. 
There's  them  that  thinks  Laurelly  is  light-minded  and 
childish,  but  I  could  tell  'em  she's  got  a  heap  of  sense 
in  that  thar  pretty  little  head  o'  her'n." 

"Oh,  Uncle  Pros!  I  forgot  you  don't  know  —  of 
course  you  don't,"  broke  in  Johnnie  with  a  sudden 
dismay  in  her  voice.  "I  ought  to  have  told  you  that 
mother"  -  she  hesitated  and  looked  at  the  old  man  — 
"mother  isn't  up  at  the  cabin  any  more.  I  left  her  in 
Cotton ville  this  morning." 


A  CLUE  325 

"Cottonville!"  echoed  Pros  in  surprise.  Then 
he  added,  "  O'  course,  she  came  down  to  take  care  o' 
me  when  I  was  hurt.  That's  like  Laurelly.  Is  all  the 
chaps  thar  ?  Is  the  cabin  empty  ?  How's  the  baby  ?" 

Johnnie  nodded  in  answer  to  these  inquiries,  for 
bearing  to  go  into  any  details.  One  thing  she  must 
tell  him. 

"Mother's  —  mother's  married  again,"  she  man 
aged  finally  to  say. 

"She's  -  The  old  man  broke  off  and  turned 
Johnnie  around  that  he  might  stare  into  her  face. 
Then  he  laughed.  "Well — well!  Things  have  been 
happenin' -- with  the  old  man  crazy  an'  all!"  he 
said.  "An'  yit  I  don't  know  it's  so  strange.  Laurelly 
is  a  mighty  handsome  little  woman,  and  she  don't 
look  a  day  older  than  you  do,  Johnnie.  I  reckon 
it  came  through  me  bein'  away,  an'  her  havin'  nobody 
to  do  for  her.  'Course"  -with  pride-  "she  could 
have  wedded  'most  any  time  since  your  Pa  died,  if 
she'd  been  so  minded.  Who  is  it  ?" 

Johnnie  looked  away  from  him.  "I  — Uncle  Pros, 
I  never  heard  a  word  about  it  till  I  came  home  one 
evening  and  there  they  were,  bag  and  baggage,  and 
they'd  been  married  but  an  hour  before  by  Squire 
Gaylord.  It"  -her  voice  sank  almost  to  a  whisper 
-"  It's  Pap  Himes." 

The   old   man   thrust  her   back   and   stared   again. 

"Gid — Gideon  Himes?"  he  exclaimed  incredu 
lously.  "Why,  the  man's  old  enough  to  be  her  grand- 
daddy,  let  alone  her  father.  Gid  Himes  —  the  old  — • 


326   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

What  in  the  name  of--  ?  Johnnie  —  and  you  think 
Himes  is  mixed  up  with  this  young  man  that's  been 
laywaid  —  him  and  Buckheath  ?  Lord,  what  is  all 
this  business  ?" 

"When  Shade  found  I  wouldn't  have  him,"  Johnnie 
began  resolutely  at  the  beginning,  "he  got  Pap  Himes 
to  take  him  to  board  so  that  he  could  always  be  at  me, 
tormenting  me  about  it.  I  don't  know  what  he  and 
Pap  Himes  had  between  them;  but  something  —  that 
I'm  sure  of.  And  after  the  old  man  went  up  and  mar 
ried  mother,  it  was  worse.  He  p.ut  the  children  in 
the  mill  and  worked  them  almost  to  death;  even  — 
even  Deanie,"  she  choked  back  a  sob.  "And  Shade 
as  good  as  told  me  he  could  make  Pap  Himes  stop  it 
any  time  I'd  promise  to  marry  him.  Something  they 
were  pulling  together  over.  Maybe  it  was  the  silver 
mine." 

"The  silver  mine!"  echoed  old  Pros.  "That's 
it.  Gid  thought  I  was  likely  to  die,  and  the  mine 
would  come  to  your  mother.  Not  but  what  he'd  be 
glad  enough  to  get  Laurelly  —  but  that's  what  put 
it  in  his  head.  An'  Gid  Himes  is  married  to  my  little 
Laurelly,  an'  been  abusin'  the  children!  Lord,  hit 
don't  pay  for  a  man  to  go  crazy.  Things  gits  out  of 
order  without  him." 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  now?"  Johnnie  inquired 
impatiently.  "We  mustn't  stay  here  talking  when 
Mr.  Stoddard  may  be  in  mortal  danger.  Shall  we  go 
on  to  our  place,  just  the  same  ?" 

The  old  man  looked  compassionately  at  her. 


A  CLUE  327 

"Hold  on,  honey  girl,"  he  demurred  gently. 
"We-  '  he  sighted  at  the  sun,  which  was  declining 
over  beyond  the  ridges  toward  Watauga.  "I'm 
mighty  sorry  to  pull  back  on  ye,  but  we've  got  to  get 
us  a  place  to  stay  for  the  night.  See,"  he  directed  her 
gaze  with  his  own;  "hit's  not  more'n  a  hour  by  sun. 
We  cain't  do  nothin'  this  evenin'." 

The  magnitude  of  the  disappointment  struck 
Johnnie  silent.  Pros  Passmore  was  an  optimist,  one 
who  never  used  a  strong  word  to  express  sorrow  or 
dismay,  but  he  came  out  of  a  brown  study  in  which  he 
had  muttered,  "Blaylock.  No,  Harp  wouldn't  do. 
Gulp's.  Sally  Ann's  not  to  be  trusted.  What  about 
the  Venable  boys?  No  good"  -to  say  with  a  dis 
tressed  drawing  of  the  brows,  "  My  God !  In  a  thing 
like  this,  you  don't  know  who  to  look  to." 

"No.  That's  so,  Uncle  Pros,"  whispered  Johnnie; 
she  gazed  back  down  the  road  she  had  come  with  the 
stranger.  "I  went  up  Slater's  Lane  to  find  Mandy 
Meacham's  sister  Roxy  that  married  Zack  Peavey," 
she  said.  "But  they've  moved  from  the  cabin  down 
there.  They  must  have  been  gone  a  good  while,  for 
there's  no  work  done  on  the  truck-patch.  I  guess 
they  went  up  to  the  Nooning-Spring  place  —  Mandy 
said  they  talked  of  moving  there.  We  might  go  and 
see.  Mandy"  -she  hesitated,  and  looked  question- 
ingly  at  her  uncle  —  "Mandy's  been  awful  good  to 
all  of  us,  and  she  liked  Mr.  Stoddard." 

"We'll  try  it,"  said  Pros  Passmore,  and  they  set 
out  together. 


3z8   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

They  climbed  in  silence,  using  a  little-travelled 
woods-road,  scarce  more  than  two  deep,  grass-grown 
ruts,  full  of  rotting  stumps.  Suddenly  a  couple  of 
children  playing  under  some  wayside  bushes  leaped 
up  and  ran  ahead  of  them,  screaming. 

"Maw—  he's  comin'  back,  and  he's  got  a  woman 
with  him!" 

A  turn  in  the  road  brought  the  Nooning-Spring 
cabin  in  sight,  a  tiny,  one-roomed  log  structure,  ancient 
and  ruinous;  and  in  its  door  a  young  woman  standing, 
with  a  baby  in  her  arms,  staring  with  all  her  eyes  at 
them  and  at  their  approaching  couriers. 

She  faltered  a  step  toward  the  dilapidated  rail  fence 
as  they  came  up. 

"Howdy,"  she  said  in  a  low,  half-frightened  tone. 
Then  to  Uncle  Pros,  "  We-all  was  mighty  uneasy  when 
you  never  come  back." 

Involuntarily  the  old  man's  hand  went  to  that 
vertebra  whose  eighth-inch  displacement  had  been 
so  lately  reduced. 

"Have  I  been  here?"  he  asked.  "I  was  out  of 
my  head,  and  I  don't  remember  it." 

The  young  woman  looked  at  him  with  a  hopeless 
drawing  of  scant,  light  eyebrows  above  bulging  gray 
eyes.  She  chugged  the  fretting  baby  gently  up  and 
down  in  her  arms  to  hush  it.  Johnnie  saw  her  resem 
blance  to  Mandy.  Apparently  giving  up  the  effort 
in  regard  to  the  man,  Zack  Peavey's  wife  addressed 
the  girl  as  an  easier  proposition. 

"He  was  here,"  she  said  in  a  sort  of  aside.     "He 


A  CLUE  329 

stayed  all  night  a-Saturday.  Zack  said  he  was  kinder 
foolish,  but  I  thought  he  had  as  much  sense  as  most 
of  'em."  Her  gaze  rested  kindly  on  the  old  man. 
The  children,  wild  and  shy  as  young  foxes,  had  stolen 
to  the  door  of  the  cabin,  in  which  they  had  taken 
refuge,  and  were  staring  out  wonderingly. 

"Well,  we'll  have  to  ask  you  could  we  stay  to-night," 
Johnnie  began  doubtfully.     "My  uncle's  been  out  of 
his  head,  and  he  got  away  from  the  folks  at  the  hospital. 
I  came  up  to  hunt  for  him.     I've  just  found  him  - 
but  we  aren't  going  right  back.     I  met  a  man  out  there 
on  the  road  that  did  something  to  him  that  —  that  - 
she  despaired  of  putting  into  words  that  the  woman 
could  comprehend  the  miracle  which  she  had  seen  the 
stranger  work-    "Well,  Uncle  Pros  is  all  right  now, 
and  we'd  like  to  stay  the  night  if  we  can." 

"Come  in  —  come  in  —  the  both  of  you,"  urged 
the  woman,  turning  toward  the  cabin.  "'Course, 
ye  kin  stay,  an'  welcome.  Set  and  rest.  Zack  ain't 
home  now.  He's  -  A  curious,  furtive  look  went 
over  her  round  face.  "Zack  has  got  a  job  on  hand, 
ploughing  for  —  ploughing  for  a  neighbour,  but  he'll 
be  home  to-night." 

They  went  in  and  sat  down.  A  kettle  of  wild  greens 
was  cooking  over  the  fire,  and  everything  was  spot 
lessly  clean.  Mandy  had  said  truly  that  there  wasn't 
a  thing  on  the  farm  she  didn't  love  to  do,  and  the 
gift  of  housewifery  ran  in  the  family.  Johnnie  had 
barely  explained  who  she  was,  and  made  such  effort 
as  she  could  to  enlist  Mandy's  sister,  when  Zack  came 


330   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

tramping  home,  and  showed,  she  thought,  some 
uneasiness  at  finding  them  there.  The  wife  ran  out 
and  met  him  before  he  reached  the  cabin,  and  they 
stood  talking  together  a  long  time,  the  lines  of  both 
figures  somehow  expressing  dismay;  yet  when  they 
came  in  there  was  a  fair  welcome  in  the  man's  de 
meanour.  At  the  supper  table,  whose  scanty  fare 
was  well  cooked,  Uncle  Pros  and  Johnnie  had  to 
tell  again,  and  yet  again,  the  story  of  that  miracu 
lous  healing  which  both  husband  and  wife  could  see 
was  genuine. 

Through  it  all,  both  Pros  and  Johnnie  attempted 
to  lead  the  talk  around  to  some  information  which 
might  be  of  use  to  them.  Nothing  was  more  natural 
than  that  they  should  speak  of  Gray  Stoddard's  dis 
appearance,  since  Watauga,  Cottonville,  and  the  moun 
tains  above  were  full  of  the  topic;  yet  husband  and 
wife  sheered  from  it  in  a  sort  of  terror. 

"Them  that  makes  or  meddles  in  such  gits  their- 
selves  into  trouble,  that's  what  I  say,"  Zack  told  the 
visitors,  stroking  a  chin  whose  contours  expressed  the 
resolution  and  aggressiveness  of  a  rabbit.  "I  ain't 
never  seen  this  here  Mr.  Man  as  far  as  I  know.  I  don't 
never  want  to  see  him.  I  ain't  got  no  call  to  mix 
myself  up  in  such,  and  I  'low  I'll  sleep  easier  and  live 
longer  if  I  don't  do  it." 

"That's  right,"  quavered  Roxy.  "Burkhalter's  boy, 
he  had  to  go  to  mixin'  in  when  the  Gulps  and  the 
Venables  was  feudin';  and  look  what  chanced.  Nary 
one  o'  them  families  lost  a  man;  but  Burkhalter's 


A  CLUE  331 

boy  got  hisself  killed  up.     Yes,  that's  what  happened 
to  him.     Dead.     I  went  to  the  funeral." 

"True  as  Scriptur',"  confirmed  Zack  -  "reach 
an'  take  off,  Pros.  Johnnie,  eat  hearty  —  true  as 
you-all  set  here.  I  he'ped  make  the  coffin  an'  dig 
the  grave." 

After  a  time  there  came  a  sort  of  ruth  to  Johnnie 
for  the  poor  creatures,  furtive,  stealing  glances  at 
each  other,  and  answering  her  inquiries  or  Uncle  Pros's 
with  dry,  evasive  platitudes.  She  knew  there  was 
no  malice  in  either  of  them;  and  that  only  the  abject 
terror  of  the  weak  kept  them  from  giving  whatever 
bit  of  information  it  was  they  had  and  were  consciously 
withholding.  Soon  she  ceased  plying  them  with  ques 
tions,  and  signalled  Uncle  Pros  that  he  should  do  the 
same.  After  the  children  were  asleep  in  their  trundle- 
bed,  the  four  elders  sat  by  the  dying  fire  on  the  hearth 
and  talked  a  little.  Johnnie  told  Zack  and  Roxy 
of  the  mill  work  at  Cottonville,  how  well  she  had  got 
on,  and  how  good  Mr.  Stoddard  had  been  to  her, 
choking  over  the  treasured  remembrances.  She  related 
the  many  kindnesses  that  had  been  shown  Pros  and 
his  kinfolk  at  the  Hospital,  how  the  old  man  had  been 
there  for  three  months,  treated  as  a  guest  during  the 
latter  part  of  his  stay  rather  than  a  patient,  and  how 
Mr.  Stoddard  would  leave  his  work  in  the  office  to 
come  and  cheer  the  sick  man,  or  quiet  him  if  he  got 
violent. 

"He  looked  perfectly  dreadful  when  I  first  saw  him," 
she  said  to  them,  "but  the  doctors  took  care  of  him  as 


332   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

if  he'd  been  a  little  baby.  The  nurses  fed  him  by 
spoonfuls  and  coaxed  him  just  like  you  would  little 
Honey;  and  Mr.  Stoddard  —  he  never  was  too  busy 
to  -  "  the  tears  brimmed  her  eyes  in  the  dusky  cabin 
interior  —  "to  come  when  Uncle  Pros  begged  for  him." 

The  woman  sighed  and  stirred  uneasily,  her  eye 
stealthily  seeking  her  husband's. 

In  that  little  one-room  hut  there  was  no  place  for 
guests.  Presently  the  men  drifted  out  to  the  chip 
pile,  where  they  lingered  a  while  in  desultory  talk. 
Roxy  and  Johnnie,  partly  undressed,  occupied  the 
one  bed;  and  later  the  host  and  his  guest  came  in  and 
lay  down,  clothed  just  as  they  were,  with  their  feet  to 
the  fire,  and  slept. 

In  the  darkness  just  before  dawn,  Johnnie  wakened 
from  heavy  sleep  and  raised  her  head  to  find  that  a 
clear  fire  was  burning  on  the  hearth  and  the  two  men 
were  gone.  Noiselessly  she  arose,  and  replaced  her 
outer  wear,  thinking  to  slip  away  without  disturbing 
Roxy.  But  when  she  returned  softly  to  the  interior, 
after  laving  face  and  hands  out  at  the  wash-basin, 
and  ordering  her  abundant  hair,  she  found  the  little 
woman  up  and  clad,  slicing  bacon  and  making  coffee 
of  generous  strength  from  their  scanty  store. 

"No — why,  the  idea!"  cried  Roxy.  "Of  course, 
you  wasn't  a-goin'  on  from  no  house  o'  mine  'thout  no 
breakfast.  .Why,  I  say!" 

Johnnie's  throat  swelled  at  the  humble  kindness. 
They  ate,  thanked  Roxy  and  her  man  Zack  in  the 
simple  uneffusive  mountain  fajshion,  and  started  away 


A  CLUE  333 

in  the  twilight  of  dawn.  The  big  road  was  barely 
reached,  when  they  heard  steps  coming  after  them  in 
the  dusk,  and  a  breathless  voice  calling  in  a  whisper, 
"Johnnie!  Johnnie!" 

The   two   turned    and   waited    till    Roxy   came    up. 

"I — ye  dropped  this  on  the  floor,"  the  woman 
said,  fumbling  in  her  pocket  and  bringing  out  a  bit  of 
paper.  "I  didn't  know  as  it  was  of  any  value  —  and 
then  again  I  didn't  know  but  what  it  might  be. 
Johnnie  -  '  she  broke  off  and  stood  peering  hesitat 
ingly  into  the  gloom  toward  the  girl's  shining  face. 

With  a  quick  touch  of  the  arm  Johnnie  signed  to 
Pros  to  move  on.  As  he  swung  out  of  earshot,  the 
bulging  light  eyes,  so  like  Mandy's,  were  suddenly 
dimmed  by  a  rush  of  tears. 

"I  reckon  he'd  beat  me  ef  he  knowed  I  told,"  Roxy 
gasped.  "He  ain't  never  struck  me  yit,  and  us  married 
five  year  —  but  I  reckon  he'd  beat  me  for  that." 

Johnnie  wisely  forbore  reply  or  interference  of  any 
sort.  The  woman  gulped,  drew  her  breath  hard, 
and  looked  about  her. 

" Johnnie,"  she  whispered  again,  "the  —  that  there 
thing  they  ride  in  —  the  otty-mobile  —  hit  broke 
dbwn,  and  Zack  was  over  to  Pres  Blevin's  blacksmith 
shop  a-he'pin'  'em  work  on  it  all  day  yesterday.  You 
know  Pres  —  he  married  Lura  Dawson's  aunt. 
Neither  Himes  nor  Buckheath  could  git  it  to  move, 
but  by  night  they  had  it  a-runnin'  -  —  or  so  hit  would 
run.  That's  why  you  never  saw  tracks  of  it  on  the 
toad  —  hit  hadn't  been  along  thar  yit.  But  hit's 


334   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

went  on  this  morning.  No  —  no  —  no!  I  don't  know 
whar  it  went.  I  don't  know  what  they  was  aimin' 
to  do.  I  don't  know  nothin'!  Don't  ask  me,  Johnnie 
Consadine,  I  reckon  I've  said  right  now  what's  put 
my  man's  neck  in  danger.  Oh,  my  God  —  I  wish 
the  men-folks  would  quit  their  fussin'  an'  feudin'!" 
And  she  turned  and  ran  distractedly  back  into  the 
cabin  while  Johnnie  hurried  on  to  join  her  uncle. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE    RESCUE 

JOHNNIE  caught  her  uncle's  hand  and  ran 
with  him  through  the  little  thicket  of  saplings 
toward  the  main  road. 

"We'll  get  the  track  of  the  wheels,  and  when  we  find 
that  car  —  and  Shade  Buckheath  —  and  Pap  Himes. 
.  .  .  I.  .  .  ."  Johnnie  panted,  and  did  not 
finish  her  sentence.  Her  heart  leaped  when  they  came 
upon  the  broad  mark  of  the  pneumatic  tires  still  fresh 
in  the  lonely  mountain  road. 

"Looks  like  they  might  have  passed  here  while 
we  was  standin'  back  there  talkin'  to  Roxy,"  Uncle 
Pros  said.  "They  could  have  — we'd  not  have  heard 
a  thing  that  distance,  through  this  thick  woods.  Won 
der  could  we  catch  up  with  them  ?" 

Johnnie  shook  her  head.  She  remembered  the 
car  flying  up  the  ascents,  swooping  down  long  slopes 
and  skimming  like  a  bird  across  the  levels,  that  morn 
ing  when  she  had  driven  it. 

"They'll  go  almost  as  fast  as  a  railroad  train,  Uncle 
Pros,"  she  told  him,  "but  we  must  get  there  as  soon 
as  we  can." 

After  that  scarcely  a  word  was  spoken,  while  the 
two,  still  hand  in  hand,  made  what  speed  they  could. 

335 


336   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

The  morning  waxed.  The  March  sunshine  was 
warm  and  pleasant.  It  was  even  hot,  toiling  endlessly 
up  that  mountain  road.  Now  and  again  they  met 
people  who  knew  and  saluted  them,  and  who  looked 
back  at  them  curiously,  furtively;  at  least  it  seemed 
so  to  the  old  man  and  the  girl.  Once  a  lean,  hawk- 
nosed  fellow  ploughing  a  hillside  field  shouted  across 
it: 

"  Hey-oh,  Pros  Passmore !  How  yuh  come  on  ? 
I  'lowed  the  student  doctors  would  'a'  had  you,  long 
ago." 

Pros  ventured  no  reply,  save  a  wagging  of  the  head. 

"That's  Blaylock's  cousin,"  he  muttered  to  Johnnie. 
"Mighty  glad  we  never  went  near  'em  last  night." 

Once  or  twice  they  were  delayed  to  talk.  Johnnie 
would  have  hurried  on,  but  her  uncle  warned  her  with 
a  look  to  do  nothing  unusual.  Everybody  spoke  to 
them  of  Gray  Stoddard.  Nobody  had  seen  anything 
of  him  within  a  month  of  his  disappearance,  but 
several  of  them  had  "hearn  say." 

"They  tell  me,"  vouchsafed  a  lanky  boy  dawdling 
with  his  axe  at  a  chip  pile,  "that  the  word  goes  in 
Cottonville  now,  that  he's  took  money  and  lit  out  for 
Canada.  Town  folks  is  always  a-doin'  such." 

"Like  as  not,  bud,"  Pros  assented  gravely.  "Me 
and  Johnnie  is  goin'  up  to  look  after  the  old  house, 
but  we  allowed  to  sleep  to-night  at  Bushares's.  Time 
enough  to  git  to  our  place  to-morrow." 

Johnnie,  who  knew  that  her  uncle  hoped  to  reach 
the  Consadine  cabin  by  noon,  instantly  understood 


THE   RESCUE  337 

that  he  considered  the  possibility  of  this  boy  being 
a  sort  of  picket  posted  to  interview  passers-by;  and 
that  the  intention  was  to  misinform  him,  so  that  he 
should  not  carry  news  of  their  approach. 

After  this,  they  met  no  one,  but  swung  on  at  their 
best  pace,  and  for  the  most  part  in  silence,  husbanding 
strength  and  breath.  Twelve  o'clock  saw  them  enter 
ing  that  gash  of  the  hills  where  the  little  cabin  crouched 
against  the  great  mountain  wall.  The  ground  became 
so  rocky,  that  the  track  of  the  automobile  was  lost. 
At  first  it  would  be  visible  now  and  again  on  a  bit  of 
sandy  loam,  chain  marks  showing,  where  the  tire  left 
no  impression;  but,  within  a  mile  or  so  of  the  Con- 
sadine  home,  it  seemed  to  have  left  the  trail.  When 
this  point  arrived,  Johnnie  differed  from  her  uncle 
in  choosing  to  hold  to  the  road. 

"Honey,  this  ends  the  cyar-tracks.  Looks  like 
they'd  turned  out.  I  think  they  took  off  into  the  bushes 
here,  and  where  that  cyar  goes  we  ought  to  go,"  Pros 
argued. 

But  Johnnie  hurried  on  ahead,  looking  about  her 
eagerly.  Suddenly  she  stooped  with  a  cry  and  picked 
up  from  the  path  a  small  object. 

"They've  carried  him  past  this  way,"  she  panted. 
"Oh,  Uncle  Pros,  he  was  right  here  not  so  very  long 
ago." 

She  scrutinized  the  sparse  growth,  the  leafless 
bushes  about  the  spot,  looking  for  signs  of  a  struggle, 
and  the  question  in  her  heart  was,  "My  God,  was 
he  alive  or  dead?"  The  thing  she  held  in  her  hand 


338   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

was  a  blossom  of  the  pink  moccasin  flower,  carefully 
pressed,  as  though  for  the  pages  of  a  herbarium.  The 
bit  of  paper  to  which  it  was  attached  was  crumpled 
and  discoloured. 

"Looks  like  it  had  laid  out  in  the  dew  last  night," 
breathed  Johnnie. 

"Or  for  a  week,"  supplied  Pros.  He  scanned  the 
little  brown  thing,  then  her  face. 

"All  right,"  he  said  dubiously;    "if  that  there  tells 
you  that  he  come  a-past  here,  we'll  foller  this  road  - 
though  it  'pears  to  me  like  we  ought  to  stick  to  the 
cyar." 

"It  isn't  far  to  our  house,"  urged  Johnnie.  "Let's 
go  there  first,  anyhow." 

For  a  few  minutes  they  pressed  ahead  in  silence; 
then  some  subtle  excitement  made  them  break  into 
a  run.  Thus  they  rounded  the  turn.  The  cabin 
came  in  sight.  Its  door  swung  wide  on  complaining 
hinges.  The  last  of  the  rickety  fence  had  fallen. 
The  desolation  and  decay  of  a  deserted  house  was  over 
all. 

'There's  been  folks  here  —  lately,"  panted  Pros. 
"Look  thar!"  and  he  pointed  to  a  huddle  of  baskets 
and  garments  on  the  porch.  "Mind  out!  Go 
careful.  They  may  be  thar  now." 

They  "went  careful,"  stealing  up  the  steps  and 
entering  with  caution;  but  they  found  nothing  more 
alarming  than  the  four  bare  walls,  the  ash-strewn, 
fireless  hearth,  the  musty  smell  of  a  long-unoccupied 
house.  Near  the  back  door,  at  a  spot  where  the  dust 


THE   RESCUE  339 

was  thick,  Uncle  Pros  bent  to  examine  a  foot-print, 
when  an  exclamation  from  Johnnie  called  him  through 
to  the  rear  of  the  cabin. 

"See  the  door!"  she  cried,  running  up  the  steep 
way  toward  the  cave  spring-house. 

"Hold  on,  honey.  Go  easy,"  cautioned  her  uncle, 
following  as  fast  as  he  could.  He  noted  the  whittling 
where  the  sapling  bar  that  held  the  stout  oaken  door 
in  place  had  been  recently  shaped  to  its  present  pur 
pose.  Then  a  soft,  rhythmic  sound  like  a  giant  breath 
ing  in  his  sleep  caught  the  old  hunter's  keen  ear. 

"Watch  out,  Johnnie,"  he  called,  catching  her  arm. 
"What's  that?  Listen!" 

Her  fingers  were  almost  on  the  bar.  They  could 
hear  the  soft  lip-lip  of  the  water  as  it  welled  out  beneath 
the  threshold,  mingled  with  the  tinkle  and  fall  of  the 
spring  branch  below. 

Johnnie  turned  in  her  uncle's  grasp  and  clutched 
him,  staring  down.  Something  shining  and  dark, 
brave  with  brass  and  flashing  lamps,  stood  on  the 
rocky  way  beneath,  and  purred  like  a  great  cat  in  the 
broad  sunlight  of  noon  —  Gray  Stoddard's  motor 
car!  The  two,  clinging  to  each  other  on  the  steep 
above  it,  gazed  half  incredulous,  now  that  they  had 
found  the  thing  they  sought.  It  looked  so  unbeliev 
ably  adequate  and  modern  and  alive  standing  there, 
drawing  its  perfectly  measured  breath;  it  was  so  elo 
quent  of  power  and  the  work  of  men's  hands  that  there 
seemed  to  yawn  a  gap  of  half  a  thousand  years  be 
tween  it  and  the  raid  in  which  it  was  being:  made  a 


340   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

factor.  That  this  pet  toy  of  the  modern  millionaire 
should  be  set  to  work  out  the  crude  vengeance  of  wild 
men  in  these  primitive  surroundings,  crowded  up  on 
a  little  rocky  path  of  these  savage  mountains,  at  the 
door  of  a  cave  spring-house — such  a  food-cache  as  a 
nomad  Indian  might  have  utilized,  in  the  gray  bluff 
against  the  sky-line  —  it  took  the  breath  with  its 
sinister  strangeness. 

They  turned  to  the  barred  door.  The  cave  was 
a  sizable  opening  running  far  back  into  the  mountain; 
indeed,  the  end  of  it  had  never  been  explored,  but 
the  vestibule  containing  the  spring  was  fitted  with  rude 
benches  and  shelves  for  holding  pans  of  milk  and  jars 
of  buttermilk. 

As  Johnnie's  hand  went  out  to  the  newly  cut  bar, 
her  uncle  once  more  laid  a  restraining  grasp  upon  it. 
A  dozen  men  might  be  on  the  other  side  of  the  oaken 
door,  and  there  might  be  nobody. 

"Hello!"   he  called,  guardedly. 

No  answer  came;  but  within  there  was  a  sound  of 
clinking,  and  then  a  shuffling  movement.  The  pant 
ing  motor  spoke  loud  of  those  who  had  brought  it 
there,  who  must  be  expecting  to  return  to  it  very 
shortly.  Johnnie's  nerves  gave  way. 

"Hello!  Is  there  anybody  inside?"  she  demanded 
fearfully. 

"Who's  there?  Who  is  it?"  came  a  muffled  hail 
from  the  cave,  in  a  voice  that  sent  the  blood  to  Johnnie's 
heart  with  a  sudden  shock. 

"Uncle    Pros,    we've    found    him!"  she    screamed, 


THE   RESCUE  341 

pushing  the  old  man  aside,  and  tugging  at  the  bar 
which  held  the  door  in  place.  As  she  worked,  there 
came  a  curious  clinking  sound,  and  then  the  dull  im 
pact  of  a  heavy  fall;  and  when  she  dragged  the  bar 
loose,  swung  the  door  wide  and  peered  into  the  gloom, 
there  was  nothing  but  the  silvery  reach  of  the  great 
spring,  and  beyond  it  a  prone  figure  in  russet  riding- 
clothes. 

"Uncle  Pros  —  he's  hurt!     Oh,  help  me!"  she  cried. 

The  prostrate  man  struggled  to  turn  his  face  to 
them. 

"Is  that  you,  Johnnie?"  Gray  Stoddard's  voice 
asked.  "No,  I'm  not  hurt.  These  things  tripped 
me  up." 

The  two  got  to  him  simultaneously.  They  found 
him  in  heavy  shackles.  They  noted  how  ankle  and 
wrist  chains  had  been  rivetted  in  place.  Together 
they  helped  him  up. 

As  they  did  so  tears  ran  down  Johnnie's  cheeks 
unregarded.  Passmore  deeply  moved,  yet  quiet,  stud 
ied  him  covertly.  This,  then,  was  the  man  of  whom 
Johnnie  thought  so  much,  the  rich  young  fellow  who 
had  left  his  work  or  amusements  to  come  and  cheer 
a  sick  old  man  in  the  hospital;  this  was  the  face  that 
was  a  stranger's  to  him,  but  which  had  leaned  over  his 
cot  or  sat  across  the  checker-board  from  him  for  long 
hours,  while  they  talked  or  played  together.  That  face 
was  pale  now,  the  brown  hair,  "a  little  longer  than 
other  people  wore  it,"  tossed  helplessly  in  Stoddard's 
eyes,  because  he  scarcely  could  raise  his  shackled 


342   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

hands  to  put  it  right;  his  russet-brown  clothing  was 
torn  and  grimed,  as  though  with  more  than  one 
struggle,  though  it  may  have  been  nothing  worse  than 
such  mishap  as  his  recent  fall.  Yet  the  man's  soul 
looked  out  of  his  eyes  with  the  same  composure,  the 
same  kindness  that  always  were  his.  He  was  eaten 
by  neither  terror  nor  rage,  though  he  was  alert  for 
every  possibility  of  help,  or  of  advantage. 

"You,  Johnnie  —  you!"  whispered  Gray,  struggling 
to  his  knees  with  their  assistance,  and  catching  a  fold 
of  her  dress  in  those  manacled  hands.  "I  have 
dreamed  about  you  here  in  the  dark.  It  is  you  —  it 
is  really  Johnnie." 

He  was  pale,  dishevelled,  with  a  long  mark  of  black 
leaf-mould  across  his  cheek  from  his  recent  fall;  and 
Johnnie  bent  speechlessly  to  wipe  the  stain  away  and 
put  back  the  troublesome  lock.  He  looked  up  into 
the  brave  beauty  of  her  young,  tear-wet  face. 

'Thank  God  for  you,  Johnnie,"  he  murmured.  "I 
might  have  known  I  wouldn't  be  let  to  die  here  in  the 
dark  like  a  rat  in  a  hole  while  Johnnie  lived." 

"Whar's  them  that  brought  you  here?  The 
keepers?"  questioned  the  old  man  anxiously,  in  a 
hoarse,  hurried  whisper. 

"  Dawson's  gone  to  his  dinner,"  returned  Gray. 
"There  were  others  here  —  came  in  an  auto  —  I 
heard  that.  They've  been  quarrelling  for  more  than 
an  hour." 

"About  what  they'd  do  with  you,"  broke  in  Pros. 
"Yes,  part  of  'em  wants  to  put  you  out  of  the  way, 


THE   RESCUE  343 

of  course."  He  stooped,  eagerly  examining  the  shackles 
on  Gray's  ankles.  "No  way  to  git  them  things  off 
without  time  and  a  file,"  he  muttered,  shaking  his 
head. 

"No,"  agreed  Stoddard.  "And  I  can't  run  much 
with  them  on.  But  we  must  get  away  from  here  as 
quick  as  we  can.  Dawson  came  in  and  told  me  after 
the  other  had  gone  that  they  had  a  big  row,  and  he 
was  standing  out  for  me.  Said  he'd  never  give  in  to 
have  me  taken  down  and  tied  on  the  railroad  track 
in  Stryver's  Gulch." 

Johnnie's  fair  face  whitened  at  the  sinister  words. 

"The  car!"  she  cried.  "It's  your  own,  Mr. 
Stoddard,  and  it's  right  down  here.  Uncle  Pros, 
we  can  get  him  to  it  —  I  can  run  it  —  I  know  how." 
She  put  her  shoulder  under  Stoddard's,  catching  the 
manacled  hand  in  hers.  Pros  laid  hold  on  the  other 
side,  and  between  them  they  half  carried  the  shackled 
captive  around  the  spring  and  to  the  door. 

"Leggo,  Johnnie!"  cried  her  uncle.  "You  run 
on  down  and  see  if  that  contraption  will  go.  I  can  git 
him  thar  now." 

Johnnie  instantly  loosed  the  arm  she  held,  sprang 
through  the  doorway,  and  headlong  down  the  bluffy 
steep,  stones  rattling  about  her.  She  leaped  into  the 
car.  Would  her  memory  serve  her  ?  Would  she  for 
get  some  detail  that  she  must  know  ?  There  were 
two  levers  under  the  steering-wheel.  She  advanced 
her  spark  and  partly  opened  the  throttle.  From  the 
steady,  comfortable  purr  which  had  undertoned  all 


344  THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

sounds  in  the  tiny  glen,  the  machine  burst  at  once 
into  a  deep-toned  roar.  The  narrow  depression 
vibrated  with  its  joyous  clamour. 

Suddenly,  above  the  sound,  Johnnie  was  aware  of 
a  distant  hail,  which  finally  resolved  itself  into  words. 

"Hi!  Hoo  —  ee!  You  let  that  car  alone,  whoever 
you  are." 

She  glanced  over  her  shoulder;  Passmore  had  got 
Gray  to  the  top  of  the  declivity,  and  was  attempting 
to  help  him  down.  Both  men  evidently  heard  the 
challenge,  but  she  screamed  to  them  again  and  again. 

"Hurry,  oh  hurry!  They're  coming  —  they're  com- 
ing." 

Stoddard  had  been  stepping  as  best  he  could,  hob 
bling  along  in  the  hampering  leg  chains,  that  were 
attached  to  the  wrists  also,  and  twitched  on  his  hands 
with  every  step.  His  muscles  responded  to  Johnnie's 
cry  almost  automatically,  stiffening  to  an  effort  at 
extra  speed,  and  he  fell  headlong,  dragging  Pros 
down  with  him.  Despairingly  Johnnie  started  to 
climb  down  from  the  car  and  go  to  their  aid,  but 
her  uncle  leaped  to  his  feet  clawing  and  grabbing  to 
find  a  hold  around  Gray's  waist,  panting  out,  "Stay 
thar  --  Johnnie  —  I  can  fetch  him." 

With  a  straining  heave  he  hoisted  Gray's  helpless 
body  into  his  arms.  The  car  trembled  like  a  great, 
eager  monster,  growling  in  leash.  Johnnie's  agonized 
eyes  searched  first  its  mechanism,  and  then  went  to 
the  descending  figures,  where  her  uncle  plunged  des 
perately  down  the  slope,  fell,  struggled,  rolled,  but 


THE   RESCUE  345 

rose  and  came  gallantly  on,  half  dragging,  half  carry 
ing  Gray  in  his  arms. 

"Let  that  car  alone!"  a  new  voice  took  up  the  hail, 
a  little  nearer  this  time;  and  after  it  came  the  sound  of 
a  shot.  High  up  on  the  mountain's  brow,  against 
the  sky,  Johnnie  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  heads  and 
shoulders  of  men,  with  the  slanting  bar  of  a  gun  barrel 
over  one. 

"Oh,  hurry,  Uncle  Pros!"  she  sobbed.  "Let  me 
come  back  and  help  you." 

But  Passmore  stumbled  across  the  remaining  space; 
mutely,  with  drawn  face  and  loud,  labouring  breath 
he  lifted  Gray  and  thrust  him  any  fashion  into  the 
tonneau,  climbing  blindly  after. 

The  pursuit  on  the  hill  above  broke  into  the  open. 
Johnnie  moved  the  levers  as  Gray  had  shown  her  how 
to  do,  and  with  a  bound  of  the  great  machine,  they 
were  off.  Stoddard,  dazed,  bruised,  abraded,  was  back 
in  the  tonneau  struggling  up  with  Uncle  Pros's  assis 
tance.  He  could  not  help  her.  She  must  know  for 
herself  and  do  the  right  thing.  The  track  led  through 
the  bushes,  as  they  had  found  it  that  morning.  It 
was  fairly  good,  but  terribly  steep.  She  noted  that 
the  speed  lever  was  at  neutral.  She  slipped  it  over 
to  the  first  speed;  the  car  was  already  leaping  down 
the  hill  at  a  tremendous  pace;  yet  those  yelling  voices 
were  behind,  and  her  pushing  fingers  carried  the 
lever  through  second  to  the  third  speed  without  pausing. 

Under  this  tremendous  pressure  the  car  jumped  like 
a  nervous  horse,  lurched  drunkenly  down  the  short 


346   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

way,  but  reeled  successfully  around  the  turn  at  the 
bottom.  Johnnie  knew  this  was  going  too  fast.  She 
debated  the  possibility  of  slackening  the  speed  a  bit 
as  they  struck  the  highway,  such  as  it  was.  Uncle 
Pros,  yet  gasping,  was  trying  to  help  Gray  into  the 
seat;  but  with  his  hampering  manacles  and  the  jerking 
of  the  car,  the  younger  man  was  still  on  his  knees, 
when  the  chase  burst  through  the  bushes,  scarcely 
more  than  three  hundred  feet  behind  them. 

There  was  a  hoarse  baying  of  men's  voices;  there 
were  four  of  them  running  hard,  and  two  carried  guns. 
The  noise  of  the  machine,  of  course,  prevented  its 
occupants  from  distinguishing  any  word,  but  the  men 
ace  of  the  open  pursuit  was  apparent. 

"Johnnie!"  cried  Gray.  "Oh,  this  won't  do! 
For  God's  sake,  Mr.  Passmore,  help  me  over  there. 
They  wouldn't  want  to  hurt  her  —  but  they're  going 
to  shoot.  She  - 

The  old  man  thrust  Gray  down,  with  a  hand  on 
his  shoulder. 

"You  keep  out  o'  range,"  he  shouted  close  to  Gray's 
ear.  "They  won't  aim  to  hit  Johnnie;  but  you 
they'll  pick  off  as  far  as  they  can  see  ye.  Bend  low, 
honey,"  to  the  girl  in  the  driver's  seat.  "  But  freeze 
to  it.  Johnnie  ain't  no  niece  of  mine  if  she  goes  back 
on  a  friend." 

The  girl  in  front  heard  neither  of  them.  There 
was  a  bellowing  detonation,  and  a  spatter  of  shot 
fell  about  the  flying  car. 

"That    ain't    goin'    to    hurt    nobody,"    commented 


THE   RESCUE  347 

Pros  philosophically.  "It's  no  more  than  buck-shot 
anyhow." 

But  on  the  word  followed  a  more  ominous  crack, 
and  there  was  the  whine  of  a  bullet  above  them. 

"My  God,  I  can't  let  her  do  this,"  Gray  protested. 
But  Johnnie  turned  over  her  shoulder  a  shining  face 
from  which  all  weariness  had  suddenly  been  erased, 
a  glorified  countenance  that  flung  him  the  fleeting 
smile  she  had  time  to  spare  from  the  machine. 

"You're  in  worse  danger  right  now  from  my  driving 
than  you  are  from  their  guns,"  she  panted. 

As  she  spoke  there  sounded  once  more  the  ripping 
crack  of  a  rifle,  the  singing  of  a  bullet  past  them,  and 
with  it  the  flatter,  louder  noise  of  the  shot-gun  was 
repeated.  Her  eye  in  the  act  of  turning  to  her  task, 
caught  the  silhouette  of  old  Gideon  Himes's  uncouth 
figure  relieved  against  the  noonday  sky,  as  he  sprang 
high,  both  arms  flung  up,  the  hands  empty  and  clutch 
ing,  and  pitched  headlong  to  his  face.  But  her  mind 
scarcely  registered  the  impression,  for  a  rifle  ball 
struck  the  shaly  edge  of  a  bluff  under  which  the  road 
at  this  point  ran,  and  tore  loose  a  piece  of  the  slate- 
like  rock,  which  glanced  whirling  into  the  tonneau 
and  grazed  Gray  Stoddard's  temple.  He  fell  forward, 
crumpling  down  into  the  bottom  of  the  vehicle. 

"On — go  on,  honey!"  yelled  Pros,  motioning 
vehemently  to  the  girl.  "  Don't  look  back  here  —  I'll 
tend  to  him";  and  he  stooped  over  the  motionless 
form. 

Then    came    the    roaring    impression    of   speed,    of 


348   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

rushing  bushes  that  gathered  themselves  and  ran  back 
past  the  car  while,  working  under  full  power,  it  stood 
stationary,  as  it  seemed  to  Johnnie,  in  the  middle 
of  a  long,  dusty  gray  ribbon  that  was  the  road.  The 
cries  of  the  men  behind  them,  all  sounds  of  pursuit, 
were  soon  left  so  far  in  the  distance  that  they  were 
unheard. 

"Ain't  this  rather  fast?"  shouted  Uncle  Pros,  who 
had  lifted  Stoddard's  bleeding  head  to  his  knee  and, 
crouched  on  the  bottom  of  the  tonneau,  was  shielding 
the  younger  man  from  further  injury  as  the  motor 
lurched  and  pitched. 

"Yes,  it's  too  fast,"  Johnnie  screamed  back  to  him. 
"I'm  trying  to  go  slower,  but  the  foot-brake  won't 
hold.  Uncle  Pros,  is  he  hurt  ?  Is  he  hurt  bad  ?" 

"I  don't  think  so,  honey,"  roared  the  old  man 
stoutly,  guarding  Gray's  inert  body  with  his  arm. 
Then,  stretching  up  as  he  kneeled,  and  leaning  forward 
as  close  to  her  ear  as  he  could  get:  "But  you  git 
him  to  Cottonville  quick  as  you  can.  Don't  you 
werry  about  goin'  slow,  unlessen  you're  scared  your 
self.  Thar  ain't  no  tellin'  who  might  pop  up  from 
behind  these  here  bushes  and  take  a  chance  shot  at  us 
as  we  go  by." 

Johnnie  worked  over  her  machine  wildly.  Gray 
had  told  her  of  the  foot-brake  only;  but  her  hand  en 
countering  the  lever  of  the  emergency  brake,  she  grasped 
it  at  a  hazard  and  shoved  it  forward,  as  the  god  of 
luck  had  ordered,  just  short  of  a  zigzag  in  the  steep 
mountain  road  which,  at  the  speed  they  had  been 


THE   RESCUE  349 

making,  would  have  piled  them,  a  mass  of  wreckage, 
beneath  the  cliff. 

The  sudden,  violent  check  —  shooting  along  at  the 
speed  they  were,  it  amounted  almost  to  a  stoppage 
—  gave  the  girl  a  sense  of  power.  If  she  could  do  that, 
they  were  fairly  safe.  With  the  relief,  her  brain 
cleared;  she  was  able  to  study  the  machine  with 
some  calmness.  Gray  could  not  help  her — out  of 
the  side  of  her  eye  she  could  see  where  he  lay  inert 
and  senseless  in  Passmore's  hold.  The  lives  of  all 
three  depended  on  her  cool  head  at  this  moment. 
She  remembered  now  all  that  Stoddard  had  said  the 
morning  he  taught  her  to  run  the  car.  With  one  move 
ment  she  threw  off  the  switch,  thus  stopping  the  engine, 
entirely.  They  must  make  it  to  Cottonville  running 
by  gravity  wherever  they  could;  since  she  had  no 
means  of  knowing  that  there  was  sufficient  gasoline 
in  the  tank,  and  it  would  not  do  to  be  overtaken  or 
waylaid. 

On  and  on  they  flew,  around  quick  turns,  along  nar 
row  ways  that  skirted  tall  bluffs,  over  stretches  of 
comparatively  level  road,  where  Johnnie  again 
switched  on  the  engine  and  speeded  up.  They  were 
skimming  down  from  the  upper  Unakas  like  a  great 
bird  whose  powerful  wings  make  nothing  of  distance. 
But  Johnnie's  heart  was  as  lead  when  she  glanced  back 
at  the  motionless  figure  in  the  tonneau,  the  white,  blood- 
streaked  face  that  lay  on  her  uncle's  arm.  She  turned 
doggedly  to  her  steering-wheel  and  levers,  and  took 
greater  chances  than  ever  with  the  going,  for  speed's 


350   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

sake.  The  boy  they  had  talked  with  two  hours  before 
at  the  chip  pile,  met  them  afoot.  He  leaped  into  the 
bushes  to  let  them  pass,  and  stared  after  them  with 
dilated  eyes.  Johnnie  never  knew  what  he  shouted. 
They  only  saw  his  mouth  open  and  working.  Merci 
fully,  so  far,  they  had  met  no  vehicles.  But  now  the 
higher,  wilder  mountains  were  behind  them,  there 
was  an  occasional  horseman.  As  they  neared  Cot- 
tonville,  and  teams  were  numerous  on  the  road, 
Johnnie,  jealously  unwilling  to  slacken  speed,  kept 
the  horn  going  almost  continuously.  People  in  wagons 
and  buggies,  or  on  foot,  drawn  out  along  the  roadside, 
cupped  hands  to  lips  and  yelled  startled  inquiries. 
Johnnie  bent  above  the  steering-wheel  and  paid  no 
attention.  Uncle  Pros  tried  to  answer  with  gesticu 
lation  or  a  shouted  word,  and  sometimes  those  he 
replied  to  turned  and  ran,  calling  to  others.  But 
it  was  black  Jim,  riding  on  Roan  Sultan,  out  with  the 
searchers,  who  saw  and  understood.  He  looked  down 
across  the  great  two-mile  turn  beyond  the  Gap,  and 
sighted  the  climbing  car.  Where  he  stood  it  was  less 
than  an  eighth  of  a  mile  below  him;  he  could  almost 
have  thrown  a  stone  into  it.  He  bent  in  his  saddle, 
shaded  his  eyes,  and  gazed  intently. 

"  Fo'  God ! "  he  muttered  under  his  breath.  "  That's 
Mr.  Gray  hisself !  Them's  the  clothes  he  was  wearin' ! " 

Whirling  his  horse  and  digging  in  the  spurs,  he 
rattled  pell-mell  down  the  opposite  steep  toward  Cot- 
tonville,  shouting  as  he  went. 

"They've  done  got  him  —  they've  found  him!    Miss 


THE   RESCUE  351 

Johnnie  Consadine's  a-bringin'  him  down  in  his  own 
cyar!" 

At  the  Hardwick  place,  where  the  front  lawn  sloped 
down  with  its  close-trimmed,  green-velvet  sward, 
stood  two  horses.  Charlie  Conroy  had  come  out  as 
soon  as  the  alarm  was  raised  to  help  with  the  search. 
He  and  Lydia  had  ridden  together  each  day  since. 
Moving  slowly  along  a  quiet  ravine  yesterday,  out 
of  sight  and  hearing  of  the  other  searchers,  Conroy 
had  found  an  intimate  moment  in  which  to  urge  his 
suit.  She  had  begged  a  little  time  to  consider,  with  so 
encouraging  an  aspect  that,  this  morning,  when  he 
came  out  that  they  might  join  the  party  bound  for 
the  mountains,  he  brought  the  ring  in  his  pocket. 
The  bulge  of  the  big  diamond  showed  through  her 
left-hand  glove.  She  had  taken  him  at  last.  She 
told  herself  that  it  was  the  only  thing  to  do.  Harriet 
Hardwick,  who  had  returned  from  Watauga,  since 
her  sister  would  not  come  to  her,  stood  in  the  door 
of  the  big  house  regarding  them  with  a  countenance 
of  distinctly  chastened  rejoicing.  Conroy's  own  frame 
or  mind  was  evident;  deep  satisfaction  radiated  from 
his  commonplace  countenance.  He  was  to  be  Jerome 
Hardwick's  brother-in-law,  an  intimate  member  of 
the  mill  crowd.  He  was  as  near  being  in  love  with 
Lydia  Sessions  at  that  moment  as  he  ever  would  be. 
As  for  Lydia  herself,  the  last  week  had  brought  that 
thin  face  of  hers  to  look  all  of  its  thirty  odd  years; 
and  the  smile  which  she  turned  upon  her  affianced 


352   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

was  the  product  of  conscientious  effort.  She  was  safely 
in  her  saddle,  and  Conroy  had  iust  swung  up  to  his 
own.  when  Jim  came  pelting  down  the  Gap  road 
toward  the  village.  They  could  see  him  across  the 
slope  of  the  hill.  Conroy  cantered  hastily  up  the 
street  a  bit  to  hear  what  the  boy  was  vociferating. 
Lydia's  nerves  quivered  at  sight  of  him  returning. 

"Hurrah!  Hurrah!"  shouted  Conroy,  waving  his 
cap.  "Lord,  Lord;  Did  you  hear  that,  Lydia: 
Hoo-ee,  Mrs.  Hardwick!  Did  you  hear  what  Jim's 
saying?  They've  got  Gray!  Johnnie  Consadine's 
bringing  him  —  in  his  own  car."  Then  turning  once 

O         O  O 

more  to  his  companion:  "Come  on.  dear;  we'll  ride 
right  down  to  the  hospital.  Jim  said  he  was  hurt. 
That's  where  she  would  take  him.  That  Johnnie 
Consadine  of  yours  is  the  girl  —  isn't  she  a  wonder, 
though  :" 

o 

Lydia  braced  herself.  It  had  come,  and  it  was 
worse  than  she  could  have  anticipated.  She  cringed 
inwardly  in  remembrance;  she  wished  she  had  not 
let  Conroy  make  that  pitying  reference  —  unreproved, 
uncorrected  —  to  Stoddard's  being  a  rejected  man. 
But  perhaps  they  were  bringing  Gray  in  dead,  after 
all  —  she  tried  not  to  hope  so. 

The  auto  became  visible,  a  tiny  dark  speck,  away 
up  in  the  Gap.  Then  it  was  sweeping  down  the  Gap 
road;  and  once  more  Conroy  swung  his  cap  and 
shouted,  though  it  is  to  be  questioned  that  any  one 
marked  him. 

Below  in  the  village  the  noisy  clatter  brought  people 


THE   RESCUE  353 

to  door  and  casement.  At  the  Himes  boarding-house, 
a  group  had  gathered  by  the  gate.  At  the  window 
above,  in  an  arm-chair,  sat  a  thin  little  woman  with 
great  dark  eyes,  holding  a  sick  child  in  her  lap.  The 
sash  was  up,  and  both  were  carefully  wrapped  in  a  big 
shawl  that  was  drawn  over  the  two  of  them. 

"Sis'  Johnnie  is  comin'  back;  she  sure  is  comin' 
back  soon,"  Laurella  was  crooning  to  her  baby.  "And 
we  ain't  goin''  to  work  in  no  cotton  mill,  an'  we  ain't 
goin'  to  live  in  this  ol'  house  any  more.  Next  thing 
we're  a-goin'  away  with  Sis'  Johnnie  and  have  a  fi-ine 
house,  where  Pap  Himes  can't  come  about  to  be  cross 
to  Deanie." 

High  up  on  Unaka  Mountain,  where  a  cluttered 
mass  of  rock  reared  itself  to  front  the  noonday  sun,  an 
old  man's  figure,  prone,  the  hands  clutched  full  of 
leaf-mould,  the  gray  face  down  amid  the  fern,  Gideon 
Himes  would  never  offer  denial  to  those  plans,  nor 
seek  to  follow  to  that  tine  house. 

The  next  moment  an  automobile  flashed  into  sight 
coming  clown  the  long  lower  slope  from  the  Gap, 
the  horn  blowing  continuously,  horsemen,  pedestrians, 
buggies  and  wagons  fleeing  to  the  roadside  bushes  as 
it  roared  past  in  its  cloud  of  dust. 

"Look,  honey,  look — yon's  Sis'  Johnnie  now!" 
cried  Laurella.  "She's  a-runnin'  Mr.  Stoddard's 
car.  An'  thar's  L  nc'  Pros.  .  .  .  Is  —  my  Lord! 
Is  that  Mr.  Stoddard  hisself,  with  blood  all  over  him  : " 

Lydia  and  Conroy,  hurrying  down  the  street,  drew 
up  on  the  fringes  of  the  little  crowd  that  had  gathered 


354   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

and  was  augmenting  every  moment,  and  Johnnie's 
face  was  turned  to  Stoddard  in  piteous  questioning. 
His  eyes  were  open  now.  He  raised  himself  a  bit  on 
her  uncle's  arm,  and  declared  in  a  fairly  audible  voice: 

"I'm    all    right.     I'm    not    hurt." 

"Somebody  git  me  a  glass  of  water,"  called  Uncle 
Pros. 

Mavity  Bence  ran  out  with  one,  but  when  she  got 
close  enough  to  see  plainly  the  shackled  figure  Pass- 
more  supported,  she  thrust  the  glass  into  Mandy 
Meacham's  hand  and  flung  her  apron  over  her  head. 

"Good  Lord!"  she  moaned.  "I  reckon  they've 
killed  him.  They  done  one  of  my  brothers  that-a-way 
in  feud  times,  and  throwed  him  over  a  bluff.  Oh, 
my  Lord;  Why  will  men  be  so  mean  ?" 

Pros  had  taken  the  glass  from  Mandy  and  held  it 
to  Gray's  lips.  Then  he  dashed  part  of  the  remaining 
water  on  Stoddard's  handkerchief  and  with  Mandy's 
help,  got  the  blood  cleared  away. 

From  every  shanty,  women  and  children  came  hasten 
ing  —  men  hurried  up  from  every  direction. 

"Look  at  her  —  look  at  Johnnie!"  cried  Beulah 
Catlett.  "  Pony !  Milo ! "  turning  back  into  the  house, 
where  the  boys  lay  sleeping.  "Come  out  here  and  look 
at  your  sister!" 

"Did  ye  run  it  all  by  yourself,  Sis'  Johnnie  ?"  piped 
Lissy  from  the  porch. 

The  girl  in  the  driver's  seat  smiled  and  nodded  to 
the  child. 

"Are    you    through    there,    Uncle    Pros?"      asked 


THE   RESCUE  355 

Johnnie.  "We  must  get  Mr.  Stoddard  on  to  his 
house." 

The  women  and  children  drew  back,  the  crowd 
ahead  parted,  and  the  car  got  under  way  once  more. 
The  entire  press  of  people  followed  in  its  wake,  surged 
about  it,  augmenting  at  every  corner. 

"I'm  afraid  my  horse  won't  stand  this  sort  of  thing," 
Lydia  objected,  desperately,  reining  in.  Conroy 
glanced  at  her  in  surprise.  Bay  Dick  was  the  soberest 
of  mounts.  Then  he  looked  wistfully  after  the  crowd. 

"Would  you  mind  if  I  -  'he  began,  and  broke 
off  to  say  contritely,  "  I'll  go  back  with  you  if  you'd 
rather."  It  was  evident  that  Lydia  would  make  of 
him  a  thoroughly  disciplined  husband. 

"Never  mind,"  she  said,  locking  her  teeth.  "I'll 
go  with  you."  One  might  as  well  have  it  done  and 
over  with.  And  they  hurried  on  to  make  up  for  lost 
time. 

They  saw  the  car  turn  in  to  the  street  which  led  to 
the  Hardwick  factory.  Somebody  had  hurried  ahead 
and  told  MacPherson  and  Jerome  Hardwick;  and  just 
as  they  came  in  sight,  the  office  doors  burst  open 
and  the  two  men  came  running  hatless  down  the  steps. 
Suddenly  the  factory  whistles  roared  out  the  signal 
that  had  been  agreed  upon,  which  bellowed  to  the 
hills  the  tidings  that  Gray  Stoddard  was  found.  Three 
long  calls  and  a  short  one  —  that  meant  that  he 
was  found  alive.  As  the  din  of  it  died  down, 
Hexter's  mills  across  the  creek  took  up  the  message, 
and  when  they  were  silent,  the  old  Victory  came  in 


356   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

on  their  heels,  bawling  it  again.  Every  whistle 
in  Cottonville  gave  tongue,  clamouring  hoarsely  above 
the  valley,  and  out  across  the  ranges,  to  the  hun 
dreds  at  their  futile  search,  "Gray  Stoddard  is  found. 
Stoddard  is  found.  Alive.  He  is  brought  in  alive." 

MacPherson  ran  up  to  one  side  of  the  car  and  Hard- 
wick  to  the  other. 

"Are  you  hurt?"  inquired  the  Scotchman,  his 
hands  stretched  out. 

"Can  you  get  out  and  come  in?"  Hardwick  de 
manded  eagerly. 

On  the  instant,  the  big  gates  swung  wide,  the 
factory  poured  out  a  tide  of  people  as  though  the 
building  had  been  afire.  At  sight  of  Stoddard,  the  car, 
and  Johnnie,  a  cheer  went  up,  spontaneous,  heart- 
shaking. 

"My  God  — look  at  that!"  MacPherson's  eyes 
had  encountered  the  shackles  on  Stoddard's  wrists. 

"Lift  him  down  —  lift  him  out,"  cried  Jerome 
Hardwick.  With  tears  on  his  tanned  cheeks  the 
Scotchman  complied;  and  Hardwick's  eyes,  too,  were 
wet  as  he  saw  it. 

"We'll  have  those  things  off  of  him  in  no  time,"  he 
shouted.  "Here,  let's  get  him  in  to  the  couch  in  my 
office.  Send  some  of  the  mechanics  here.  Where's 
Shade  Buckheath?" 

A  dozen  pairs  of  hands  were  stretched  up  to  assist 
MacPherson  and  Pros  Passmore.  As  many  as  could 
get  to  the  rescued  man  helped.  And  when  the  crowd 
saw  that  shackled  figure  raised,  and  heard  in  the  tense 


THE   RESCUE  357 

silence  the  clinking  sound  of  the  chains,  a  low  groan 
went  through  it;  more  than  one  woman  sobbed  aloud. 
But  at  this  Gray  raised  his  head  a  bit,  and  once  more 
declared  in  a  fairly  strong  voice: 

"I'm  not  hurt,  people  —  only  a  little  crack  on  the 
head.  I'm  all  right  —  thanks  to  her,"  and  he  motioned 
toward  the  girl  in  the  car,  who  was  watching  anxiously. 

Then  the  ever  thickening  throng  went  wild;  and 
as  Gray  was  carried  up  the  steps  and  disappeared 
through  the  office  doors,  it  turned  toward  the  auto 
mobile,  surging  about  the  car,  a  sea  of  friendly,  admir 
ing  faces,  most  of  them  touched  with  the  tenderness 
of  tears,  and  cheered  its  very  heart  out  for  Johnnie 
Consadine. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE    FUTURE 

GRAY!"  it  was  Uncle  Pros's  voice,  and  Uncle 
Pros's    face    looked    in    at    the    office    door. 
"Could  I  bother  you  a  minute  about  the  side 
walk  in  front  of  the  place  up  yon  ?     Mr.  Hexter  told 
me  you'd  know  whether  the  grade  was  right,  and  I 
could  let  the  workmen  go  ahead." 

Stoddard  swung  around  from  his  desk  and  looked 
at  the  old  man. 

"Come  right  in,"  he  said.  "I'm  not  busy  —  I'm 
just  pretending  this  morning.  MacPherson  won't  give 
me  anything  to  do.  He  persists  in  considering  me  still 
an  invalid." 

Uncle  Pros  came  slowly  in  and  laid  his  hat  down 
gingerly  before  seating  himself.  He  was  dressed  in 
the  garb  which,  with  money,  he  would  always  have 
selected  —  the  village  ideal  of  a  rich  gentleman's  wear 
-  and  he  looked  unbelievably  tall  and  imposing  in 
his  black  broadcloth.  When  the  matter  of  the  patent 
was  made  known  to  Jerome  Hardwick,  a  company 
was  hastily  formed  to  take  hold  of  it,  which  advanced 
the  ready  money  for  Johnnie  and  her  family  to  place 
themselves.  Mrs.  Hexter,  who  had  been  all  winter 
in  Boston,  had  decided,  suddenly,  to  go  abroad;  and 

358 


THE   FUTURE  359 

when  her  husband  wired  her  to  know  if  he  might  let 
the  house  to  the  Consadine-Passmore  household,  she 
made  a  quick,  warm  response. 

So  they  were  domiciled  in  a  ready-prepared  home 
of  elegance  and  beauty.  Though  the  place  at  Cotton- 
ville  had  been  only  a  winter  residence  with  Mrs.  Hexter, 
she  was  a  woman  of  taste,  and  had  always  had  large 
means  at  her  command.  With  all  a  child's  plasticity, 
Laurella  dropped  into  the  improved  order  of  things. 
Her  cleverness  in  selecting  the  proper  wear  for  herself 
and  children  was  nothing  short  of  marvellous;  and  her 
calm  acceptance  of  the  new  state  of  affairs,  the  acme 
of  good  breeding.  Johnnie  immediately  set  about 
seeing  that  Mavity  Bence  and  Mandy  Meacham  were 
comfortably  provided  for  in  the  old  boarding-house, 
where  she  assured  Gray  they  could  do  more  good  than 
many  Uplift  clubs. 

"We'll  have  a  truck-patch  there,  and  a  couple  of 
cows  and  some  chickens,"  she  said.  "That'll  be  good 
for  the  table,  and  it'll  give  Mandy  the  work  she  loves  to 
do.  Aunt  Mavity  can  have  some  help  in  the  house  - 
there's  always  a  girl  or  two  breaking  down  in  the  mills, 
who  would  be  glad  to  have  a  chance  at  housework 
for  a  while." 

Now  Pros  looked  all  about  him,  and  seemed  in  no 
haste  to  begin,  though  Gray  knew  well  there  was 
something  on  his  mind.  Finally  Stoddard  observed, 
smiling: 

"You're  the  very  man  I  wanted  to  see,  Uncle  Pros. 
I  rang  up  the  house  just  now,  but  Johnnie  said  you  had 


360      THE   POWE'R  AND  THE   GLORY 

started  down  to  the  mills.     What  do  you  think  I've 
found  out  about  our  mine?" 

Certainly  the  old  man  looked  very  tall  and  dignified 
in  his  new  splendours;  but  now  he  was  all  boy,  leaning 
eagerly  forward  to  half  whisper: 

"  I  don't  know  —  what  ?" 

Stoddard's  face  was  scarcely  less  animated  as  he 
searched  hastily  in  the  pigeon-holes  of  his  desk.  The 
patent  might  have  a  company  to  manage  its  affairs, 
but  the  mine  on  Big  Unaka  was  sacred  to  these  two,  in 
whom  the  immortal  urchin  sufficiently  survived  to 
make  mine-hunting  and  exploiting  delectable  employ 
ment. 

"Why,  Uncle  Pros,  it  isn't  silver  at  all.  It's  - 
Gray  looked  up  and  caught  the  woeful  drop  of  the  face 
before  him,  and  hastened  on  to  add,  "It's  better  than 
silver  —  it's  nickel.  The  price  of  silver  fluctuates; 
but  the  world  supply  of  nickel  is  limited,  and  nickel's 
a  sure  thing." 

Pros  Passmore  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  digesting 
this  new  bit  of  information  luxuriously. 

"Nickel,"  he  said  reflectively.  And  again  he 
repeated  the  word  to  himself.  "Nickel.  Well,  I  don't 
know  but  what  that's  finer.  Leastways,  it's  likelier. 
To  say  a  silver  mine,  always  seemed  just  like  taking 
money  out  of  the  ground;  but  then,  nickels  are  money 
too  —  and  enough  of  'em  is  all  a  body  needs." 

''These  people  say  the  ore  is  exceptionally  fine." 
Stoddard  had  got  out  the  letter  now  and  was  glancing 
over  it.  "  They're  sending  down  an  expert,  and  you 


THE   FUTURE  361 

and  I  will  go  up  with  him  as  soon  as  he  gets  here. 
There  are  likely  to  be  other  valuable  minerals  as  by 
products  in  a  nickel  mine.  And  we  want  to  build  an 
ideal  mining  village,  as  well  as  model  cotton  mills. 
Oh,  we've  got  the  work  cut  out  for  us  and  laid  right  to 
hand !  If  we  don't  do  our  little  share  toward  solving 
some  problems,  it  will  be  strange." 

"Cur'us  how  things  turns  out  in  this  world,"  the  old 
man  ruminated.  "Ever  sence  I  was  a  little  chap  settin' 
on  my  granddaddy's  knees  by  the  hearth  —  big  hickory 
fire  a-roarin'  up  the  chimbly,  wind  a-goin'  'whooh!' 
overhead,  an'  me  with  my  eyes  like  saucers  a-listenin' 
to  his  tales  of  the  silver  mine  that  the  Injuns  had  —  ever 
sence  that  time  I've  hunted  that  thar  mine."  He 
laughed  chucklingly,  deep  in  his  throat.  "Thar 
wasn't  a  wild-catter  that  could  have  a  hideout  safe 
from  me.  They  just  had  to  trust  me.  I  crawled 
into  every  hole.  I  came  mighty  near  seein'  the  end 
of  every  cave  —  but  one.  And  that  cave  was  the 
one  whar  my  Mammy  kept  her  milk  and  butter  —  the 
springhouse  whar  they  put  you  in  prison.  Somehow, 
I  never  did  think  about  goin'  to  the  end  of  that. 
Looked  like  it  was  too  near  home  to  have  a  silver 
mine  in  it;  and  thar  the  stuff  lay  and  waited  for  the  day 
when  I  should  take  a  notion  to  find  a  pretty  rock  for 
Deanie,  and  crawl  back  in  thar  and  keep  a  crawlin', 
till  I  just  fell  over  it,  all  croppin'  out  in  the  biggest 
kind  of  vein." 

Gray  had  heard  Uncle  Pros  tell  the  story  many 
times,  but  it  had  a  perennial  charm. 


362   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

"Then  I  lost  six  months  —  plumb  lost  'em,  you  know. 
And  time  I  come  to  myself,  Johnnie  an'  me  was  a-huntin' 
for  you.  And  there  we  found  you  shut  in  that  thar  same 
cave;  and  I  was  so  tuck  up  with  that  matter  that  I 
never  once  thought,  till  I  got  you  home,  to  wonder  did 
Buckheath  and  the  rest  of 'em  know  that  they'd  penned 
you  in  the  silver  mine.  I  ain't  never  asked  you,  but 
you'd  have  knowed  if  they  had." 

"I  should  have  known  anything  that  Rudd  Dawson 
or  Groner  or  Venters  knew,"  Gray  said,  "but  I'm  not 
sure  about  Buckheath  or  Himes.  However,  Himes 
is  dead,  and  Buckheath  —  I  don't  suppose  anybody 
in  Cottonville  will  ever  see  him  again." 

Pros's  face  changed  instantly.  He  leaned  abruptly 
forward  and  laid  a  hand  on  the  other's  knee. 

'That's  exactly  what  I  came  down  here  to  speak  with 
you  about,  Gray,"  he  said.  'They've  fetched  Shade 
Buckheath  in  —  now,  what  do  you  make  out  of  that  ?" 

Stoddard  shoved  the  letter  from  the  Eastern  mining 
man  back  in  its  pigeon-hole. 

"Well,"  he  said  slowly,  "I  didn't  expect  that.  I 
thought  of  course  Shade  was  safely  out  of  the  country. 
I--Passmore,  I'm  sorry  they've  got  him."  After 
a  little  silence  he  spoke  again.  "What  do  I  make  of 
it  ?  Why,  that  there  are  some  folks  up  on  Big  Unaka 
who  need  pretty  badly  to  appear  as  very  law-abiding 
citizens.  I'll  wager  anything  that  Groner  and  Rudd 
Dawson  brought  Shade  in." 

Uncle  Pros  nodded  seriously.  "  Them's  the  very 
fellers,"  he  said.  "  Reckon  they've  talked  pretty  free 


THE   FUTURE  363 

to  you.  I  never  axed  ye,  Gray  —  how  did  they  treat 
ye?" 

"Dawson  was  the  best  friend  I  had,"  Stoddard 
returned  promptly.  "When  I  got  to  the  big  turn  on 
Sultan  —  coming  home  that  Friday  morning  —  Buck- 
heath  met  me,  and  asked  me  to  go  down  to  Burnt 
Cabin  and  help  him  with  a  man  that  had  fallen  and 
hurt  himself  on  the  rocks.  Dawson  told  me  afterward 
that  he  and  Jesse  Groner  were  posted  at  the  roadside 
to  stop  me  and  hem  me  in  before  I  got  to  the  bluff. 
I've  described  to  you  how  Buckheath  tried  to  back 
Sultan  over  the  edge,  and  I  got  off  on  the  side  where 
the  two  were,  not  noticing  them  till  they  tied  me  hand 
and  foot.  They  almost  came  to  a  clinch  with  Buck- 
heath  then  and  there.  You  ought  to  have  heard  Groner 
swear'.  It  was  like  praying  gone  wrong." 

"Uh-huh,"  agreed  Pros,  "Jess  is  a  terrible  wicked 
man  —  in  speech  that-a-way  —  but  he's  good-hearted." 

"That  first  scrimmage  showed  me  just  what  the  men 
were  after,"  Stoddard  said.  "Buckheath  plainly 
wanted  me  put  out  of  the  way;  but  the  others  had  some 
vague  idea  of  holding  me  for  a  ransom  and  getting 
money  out  of  the  Hardwicks.  Dawson  complained 
always  that  he  thought  the  mills  owed  him  money. 
He  said  they  must  have  sold  his  girl's  body  for  as  much 
as  a  hundred  dollars,  and  he  felt  that  he'd  been  cheated. 
Oh,  it  was  all  crazy  stuff!  But  he  and  the  others  had 
justified  themselves;  and  they  had  no  notion  of  standing 
for  what  Buckheath  was  after.  I  was  one  of  the  cotton- 
mill  men  to  them;  they  had  no  personal  malice. 


364   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

Through  the  long  evenings  when  Groner  or  Dawson 
or  Will  Venters  was  guarding  me  —  or  maybe  all  three 
of  them  —  we  used  to  talk;  and  it  surprised  me  to  find 
how  simple  and  childish  those  fellows  were.  They 
were  as  kind  to  me  as  though  I  had  been  a  brother, 
and  treated  me  courteously  always. 

"Little  by  little,  I  got  at  the  whole  thing  from  them. 
It  seems  that  Buckheath  took  advantage  of  the  feeling 
there  was  in  the  mountains  against  the  mill  men  on 
account  of  the  hospital  and  some  other  matters.  He 
went  up  there  and  interviewed  anybody  that  he  thought 
might  join  him  in  a  vendetta.  I  imagine  he  found 
plenty  of  them  that  were  ready  to  talk  and  some  that 
were  willing  to  do;  but  it  chanced  that  Dawson  and 
Jesse  Groner  were  coming  down  to  Cottonville  that 
morning  I  passed  Buckheath  at  the  Hardwick  gate, 
and  he  must  have  cut  across  the  turn  and  followed 
me,  intending  to  pick  a  quarrel.  Then  he  met  Dawson 
and  Groner  and  framed  up  this  other  plan  with  their 
assistance. 

"Uncle  Pros,  I  want  you  to  help  me  out.  If  Buck- 
heath  has  to  stand  trial,  how  are  we  —  any  of  us  — 
going  to  testify  without  making  it  hard  on  the  Dawson 
crowd  ?  I  expect  to  live  here  the  rest  of  my  days. 
Here's  this  mine  of  ours.  And  right  here  I  mean  to 
build  a  big  mill  and  work  out  my  plans.  I  think  you 
know  that  I  hope  to  marry  a  mountain  wife,  and  I 
can't  afford  to  quarrel  with  those  folks." 

Uncle  Pros's  chin  dropped  to  his  breast,  his  eyes 
half  closed  as  he  sat  thinking  intently. 


THE   FUTURE  365 

"Well,"  he  said  finally,  "they  won't  have  nothing 
worse  than  manslaughter  against  Shade.  It  can't 
be  proved  that  he  intended  to  shoot  Pap --'cause 
he  didn't.  If  he  was  shootin'  after  us  —  there's  the 
thing  we  don't  want  to  bring  up.  You  was  down  in 
the  bottom  of  the  cyar,  an'  I  had  my  back  to  him, 
and  so  did  Johnnie,  and  we  don't  know  anything  about 
what  was  done  —  ain't  that  so  ?  As  for  you,  you've 
already  told  Mr.  Hardwick  and  the  others  that  you 
was  taken  prisoner  and  detained  by  parties  unknown. 
Johnnie  an'  me  was  gettin'  you  out  of  the  springhouse 
and  away  in  the  machine.  Then  Gid  and  Shade 
comes  up,  and  thinkin'  we're  the  other  crowd  stealin' 
the  machine  —  they  try  to  catch  us  and  turn  loose  at 
us — that  makes  a  pretty  good  story,  don't  it?" 

"It  does  if  Dawson  and  Groner  and  Venters  agree 
to  it,"  Stoddard  laughed.  "But  somebody  will  have 
to  communicate  with  them  before  they  tell  another  one 
—  or  several  others." 

"I'll  see  to  that,  Gray,"  Pros  said,  rising  and  pre 
paring  to  go.  "Boy,"  he  looked  down  fondly  at  the 
younger  man,  and  set  a  brown  right  hand  on  his 
shoulder,  "you  never  done  a  wiser  thing  nor  a  kinder 
in  your  life,  than  when  you  forgave  your  enemies  that 
time.  I'll  bet  you  could  ride  the  Unakas  from  end 
to  end,  the  balance  o'  your  days,  the  safest  man  that 
ever  travelled  their  trails." 

"Talking  silver  mine?"  inquired  MacPherson,  put 
ting  his  quizzical  face  in  at  the  door. 

"No,"  returned  Stoddard.     "We  were  just  mention- 


366   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

ing  my  pestilent  cotton-mill  projects.  By  this  time 
next  year,  you  and  Hardwick  will  be  wanting  to  have 
me  abated  as  a  nuisance." 

"No,  no,"  remonstrated  MacPherson,  coming  in  and 
leaning  with  affectionate  familiarity  on  the  younger 
man's  chair.  'There's  no  pestilence  in  you,  Gray. 
You  couldn't  be  a  nuisance  if  you  tried.  People  who 
will  work  out  their  theories  stand  to  do  good  in  the 
world;  it's  only  the  fellows  who  are  content  with 
bellowing  them  out  that  I  object  to." 

"Better  be  careful!"  laughed  Stoddard.  "We'll 
make  you  vice-president  of  the  company." 

"Is  that  an  offer?"  countered  MacPherson  swiftly. 
"I've  got  a  bit  of  money  to  invest  in  this  county;  and 
Hardwick  has  ever  a  new  brother-in-law  or  such  that 
looks  longingly  at  my  shoes." 

"You'd  furnish  the  conservative  element,  surely," 
debated  Stoddard. 

"I'd  keep  you  from  bankruptcy,"  grunted  the 
Scotchman,  as  he  laid  a  small  book  on  Gray's  desk. 
"I  doubt  not  Providence  demands  it  of  me." 

Evening  was  closing  in  with  a  greenish-yellow  sunset, 
and  a  big  full  moon  pushing  up  to  whiten  the  sky  above 
it.  It  was  late  March  now,  and  the  air  was  full  of 
vernal  promise.  Johnnie  stepped  out  on  the  porch 
and  glanced  toward  the  west.  She  was  expecting 
Gray  that  evening.  Would  there  be  time  before  he 
came,  she  wondered,  for  a  little  errand  she  wanted  to 
do  ?  Turning  back  into  the  hall,  she  caught  a  jacket 
from  the  hook  where  it  hung  and  hurried  down  to  the 


THE  FUTURE  367 

gate,  settling  her  arms  in  the  sleeves  as  she  ran.  There 
would  be  time  if  she  went  fast.  She  wished  to  get  the 
little  packet  into  which  she  had  made  Gray's  letters 
months  ago,  dreading  to  look  even  at  the  folded  out- 
sides  of  them,  tucking  them  away  on  the  high  shelf 
of  her  dress-closet  at  the  Pap  Himes  boarding-house, 
and  trying  to  forget  them.  Nobody  would  know  where 
to  look  but  herself.  She  got  permission  from  Mavity 
to  go  upstairs.  Once  there,  the  letters  made  their  own 
plea;  and  alone  in  the  little  room  that  was  lately  her 
own,  she  opened  the  packet,  carrying  the  contents 
to  the  fading  light  and  glancing  over  sheet  after  sheet. 
She  knew  them  all  by  heart.  How  often  she  had 
stood  at  that  very  window  devouring  these  same  words, 
not  realizing  then,  as  she  did  now,  what  deep  meaning 
was  in  each  phrase,  how  the  feeling  expressed  increased 
from  the  first  to  the  last.  Across  the  ravine,  one  of  the 
loom  fixers  found  the  evening  warm  enough  to  sit  on 
the  porch  playing  his  guitar.  The  sound  of  the 
twanging  strings,  and  the  appealing  vibration  of  his 
young  voice  in  a  plaintive  minor  air,  came  over  to  her. 
She  gathered  the  sheets  together  and  pressed  them  to 
her  face  as  though  they  were  flowers,  or  the  hands  of 
little  children. 

"I've  got  to  tell  him  —  to-night,"  she  whispered  to 
herself,  in  the  dusky,  small,  dismantled  room.  "I've 
got  to  get  him  to  see  it  as  I  do.  I  must  make  my 
self  worthy  of  him  before  I  let  him  take  me  for  his 
own." 

She  thrust  the  letters  into  the  breast-pocket  of  her 


368   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

coat  and  ran  downstairs.     Mavity  Bence  stood  in  the 
hall,  plainly  awaiting  her. 

"Honey,"  she  began  fondly,  "I've  been  putting  away 
Pap's  things  to-day  —  jest  like  you  oncet  found  me 
putting  away  Lou's.  I  came  on  this  here."  And 
then  Johnnie  noticed  a  folded  bandanna  in  her  hands. 

"  You-ali  asked  me  to  let  ye  go  through  and  find  that 
nickel  ore,  and  ye  brung  it  out  in  a  pasteboard  box; 
but  this  here  is  what  it  was  in  on  the  day  your  Uncle 
Pros  fetched  hit  here,  and  I  thought  maybe  you'd  take 
a  interest  in  having  the  handkercher  that  your  fortune 
come  down  the  mountains  in." 

"Yes,  indeed,  Aunt  Mavity,"  said  Johnnie,  taking 
the  bandanna  into  her  own  hands. 

"Pap,  he's  gone,"  the  poor  woman  went  on  tremu 
lously,  "  an'  the  evil  what  he  done  —  or  wanted  to  do  - 
is  a  thing  that  I  reckon  you  can  afford  to  forget.     You're 
a  mighty  happy  woman,  Johnnie  Consadine;  the  Lord 
knows   you    deserve    to    be." 

She  stood  looking  after  the  girl  as  she  went  out  into 
the  twilit  street.  Johnnie  was  dressed  as  she  chose  now, 
not  as  she  must,  and  her  clothing  showed  itself  to  be 
of  the  best.  Anything  that  might  be  had  in  Wautaga 
was  within  her  means;  and  the  tall,  graceful  figure 
passing  so  quietly  down  the  street  would  never  have 
been  taken  for  other  than  a  member  of  what  we  are 
learning  to  call  the  "  leisure  class."  When  the  shadows 
at  the  end  of  the  block  swallowed  her  up,  Mavity  turned, 
wiping  her  eyes,  and  addressed  herself  to  her  tasks. 

"I  reckon  Lou  would  'a'  been  just  like  that  if  she'd 


THE   FUTURE  369 

V  lived,"  she  said  to  Mandy  Meacham,  with  the 
tender  fatuity  of  mothers.  "  Johnnie  seems  like  a 
daughter  to  me  —  an'  I  know  in  my  soul  no  daughter 
could  be  kinder.  Look  at  her  makin'  me  keep  every 
cent  Pap  had  in  the  bank,  when  Laurelly  could  have 
claimed  it  all  and  kep'  it." 

"Yes,  an'  addin'  somethin'  to  it,"  put  in  Mandy. 
"I  do  love  'em  both -- Johnnie  an'  Deanie.  Ef  I 
ever  was  so  fortunate  as  to  get  a  man  and  be  wedded 
and  have  chaps  o'  my  own,  I  know  mighty  well  and 
good  I  couldn't  love  any  one  of  'em  any  better  than  I  do 
Deanie.  An'  yet  Johnnie's  quare.  I  always  will  say 
that  Johnnie  Consadine  is  quare.  What  in  the  nation 
does  she  want  to  go  chasin'  off  to  Yurrup  for,  when  she's 
got  everything  that  heart  could  desire  or  mind  think 
of  right  here  in  Cottonville  ?" 

That  same  question  was  being  put  even  more  search- 
ingly  to  Johnnie  by  somebody  else  at  the  instant  when 
Mandy  enunciated  it.  She  had  found  Gray  waiting 
for  her  at  the  gate  of  her  home. 

"Let's  walk  here  a  little  while  before  we  go  in," 
he  suggested.  "I  went  up  to  the  house  and  found 
you  were  out.  The  air  is  delightful,  and  I've  got  some 
thing  I  want  to  say  to  you." 

He  had  put  his  arm  under  hers,  and  they  strolled  to 
gether  down  the  long  walk  that  led  to  the  front  of  the 
lawn.  The  evening  air  was  pure  and  keen,  tingling 
with  the  breath  of  the  wakening  season. 

"Sweetheart,"  Gray  broke  out  suddenly,  "I've 
been  thinking  day  and  night  since  we  last  talked  together 


370   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

about  this  year  abroad  that  you're  planning.  I  cer 
tainly  don't  want  to  put  my  preferences  before  yours. 
I  only  want  to  be  very  sure  that  I  know  what  your 
real  preferences  are,"  and  he  turned  and  searched 
her  face  with  a  pair  of  ardent  eyes. 

"  I  think  I  ought  to  go,"  the  girl  said  in  a  very  low 
voice,  her  head  drooped,  her  own  eyes  bent  toward 
the  path  at  her  feet. 

"Why?"   whispered    her   lover. 

"  I  —  oh,  Gray  —  you  know.  If  we  should  ever  be 
married  —  well,  then,"  in  answer  to  a  swift,  impatient 
exclamation,  "when  we  are  married,  if  you  should 
show  that  you  were  ashamed  of  me  —  I  think  it  would 
kill  me.  No,  don't  say  there's  not  any  danger.  You 
might  have  plenty  of  reason.  And  I  --I  want  to  be 
safe,  Gray  —  safe,  if  I  can." 

Gray  regarded  the  beautiful,  anxious  face  long  and 
thoughtfully.  Yes,  of  course  it  was  possible  for  her 
to  feel  that  way.  Assurance  was  so  deep  and  perfect 
in  his  own  heart,  that  he  had  not  reflected  what  it 
might  lack  in  hers. 

"Dear  girl,"  he  said,  pausing  and  making  her  look 
at  him,  "how  little  you  do  know  of  me,  after  all!  Do  I 
care  so  much  for  what  people  say  ?  Aren't  you  always 
having  to  reprove  me  because  I  so  persistently  like  what 
I  like,  without  reference  to  the  opinions  of  the  world  ? 
Besides,  you're  a  beauty,"  with  tender  brusqueness, 
"and  a  charmer  that  steals  the  hearts  of  men.  If  you 
don't  know  all  this,  it  isn't  from  lack  of  telling.  More 
over,  I  can  keep  on  informing  you.  A  year  of  European 


THE   FUTURE  371 

travel  could  not  make  you  any  more  beautiful,  Johnnie 
—  or  sweeter.  You  may  not  believe  me,  but  there's 
little  the  'European  capitals'  could  add  to  your  native 
bearing  —  you  must  have  learned  that  simple  dignity 
from  these  mountains  of  yours.  Of  course,  if  you 
wanted  to  go  for  pleasure  -  '  His  head  a  little  on  one 
side,  he  regarded  her  with  a  tender,  half-quizzical 
smile,  hoping  he  had  sounded  the  note  that  would 
bring  him  swift  surrender. 

"  It  isn't  altogether  for  myself  —  there  are  the  others," 
Johnnie  told  him,  lifting  honest  eyes  to  his  in  the  dim 
moonlight.  'They're  all  I  had  in  the  world,  Gray,  till 
you  came  into  my  life,  and  I  must  keep  my  own.  I 
belong  to  a  people  who  never  give  up  anything  they 
love." 

Stoddard  dropped  an  arm  about  his  beloved,  and 
turned  her  that  she  might  face  the  windows  of  the 
house  behind  them,  bending  to  set  his  cheek  against 
hers  and  direct  her  gaze. 

"Look  there,"  he  whispered,  laughingly. 

She  looked  and  saw  her  mother,  clad  in  such  wear 
as  Laurella's  taste  could  select  and  Laurella's  beauty 
make  effective.  The  slight,  dark  little  woman  was 
coming  in  from  the  dining  room  with  her  children 
all  about  her,  a  noble  group. 

"Your  mother  is  much  more  the  fine  lady  than  you'll 
ever  be,  Johnnie  Stoddard,"  Gray  said,  giving  her  the 
name  that  always  brought  the  blood  to  the  girl's  cheek 
and  made  her  dumb  before  him.  "You  know  your 
Uncle  Pros  and  I  are  warmly  attached  to  each  other. 


372   THE  POWER  AND  THE  GLORY 

What  is  it  you'd  be  waiting  for,  girl  ?  Why,  Johnnie, 
a  man  has  just  so  long  to  live  on  this  earth,  and  the 
years  in  which  he  has  loved  are  the  only  years  that 
count  —  would  you  be  throwing  one  of  these  away  ? 
A  year  —  twelve  months  —  three  hundred  and  sixty- 
five  days  — cast  to  the  void.  You  reckless  creature!" 

He  cupped  his  hands  about  her  beautiful,  fair  face 
and  lifted  it,  studying  it. 

"Johnnie  --  Johnnie  --  Johnnie  Stoddard;  the  one 
woman  out  of  all  the  world  for  me,"  he  murmured, 
his  deep  voice  dropping  to  a  wooing  cadence.  "I 
couldn't  love  you  better  —  I  shall  never  love  you  less. 
Don't  let  us  foolishly  throw  away  a  year  out  of  the  days 
which  will  be  vouchsafed  us  together.  Don't  do  it, 
darling  —  it's  folly." 

Hard-pressed,  Johnnie  made  only  a  sort  of  inarticu 
late  response. 

"Come,  love,  sit  a  moment  with  me,  here,"  pleaded 
Gray,  indicating  a  small  bench  hidden  among  the 
evergreens  and  shrubs  at  the  end  of  the  path.  "Sit 
down,  and  let's  reason  this  thing  out." 

"Reasoning  with  you,"  began  Johnnie,  helplessly, 
"isn't  —  it  isn't  reasonable!" 

"It  is,"  he  told  her,  in  that  deep,  masterful  tone 
which,  like  a  true  woman,  she  both  loved  and  dreaded. 
"It's  the  height  of  reasonableness.  Why,  dear,  the 
great  primal  reason  of  all  things  speaks  through  me. 
And  I  won't  let  you  throw  away  a  year  of  our  love. 
Johnnie,  it  isn't  as  though  we'd  been  neighbours,  and 
grown  up  side  by  side.  I  came  from  the  ends  of  the 


THE   FUTURE  373 

earth  to  find  you,  darling  —  and  I  knew  my  own  as 
soon  as  I  saw  you/' 

He  put  out  his  arms  and  gathered  her  into  a  close 
embrace. 

For  a  space  they  rested  so,  murmuring  question  and 
reply,  checked  or  answered  by  swift,  sweet  kisses. 

"The  first  time  I  ever  saw  you,  love. 

"Oh,  in  those  dusty  old  shoes  and  a  sunbonnet! 
Could  you  love  me  then,  Gray?" 

"The  same  as  at  this  moment,  sweetheart.  Shoes 
and  sunbonnets  —  I'm  ashamed  of  you  now,  Johnnie, 
in  earnest.  What  do  such  things  matter?" 

"And  that  morning  on  the  mountain,  when  we  got 
the  moccasin  flowers,"  the  girl's  voice  took  up  the  theme. 
"  I  —  it  was  sweet  to  be  with  you  —  and  bitter,  too. 
I  could  not  dream  then  that  you  were  for  me.  And 
afterward  —  the  long,  black,  dreadful  time  when  you 
seemed  so  utterly  lost  to  me  — 

At  the  mention  of  those  months,  Gray  stopped  her 
words  with  a  kiss. 

"Mine,"  he  whispered  with  his  lips  against  hers, 
"Out  of  all  the  world — mine." 


THE  END 


3   1158  00337  7560 


LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  046  242     4 


